the color of blood is not scarlet
or crimson red. it is the rusting
of old metal and the frothing
tantrums of lava. it is an overripe
strawberry left unpicked on
the vine to rot. it is a rose with
thorns or a leaf in autumn,
blown awry by vengeful gusts of
wind. it is streaks of watercolor
against the canvas of the evening
sky. it is a grain of sand in the
harsh desert or a pebble in a small
stream. it is a pomegranate in
persephone's hands or a single
perfect red apple in the basket
of an elderly woman.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
the color of blood is not scarlet
or crimson red. it is the rusting
of old metal and the frothing
tantrums of lava. it is an overripe
strawberry left unpicked on
the vine to rot. it is a rose with
thorns or a leaf in autumn,
blown awry by vengeful gusts of
wind. it is streaks of watercolor
against the canvas of the evening
sky. it is a grain of sand in the
harsh desert or a pebble in a small
stream. it is a pomegranate in
persephone's hands or a single
perfect red apple in the basket
of an elderly woman.
