How to tell?

I've always loved that deep, deep red,
Soft as velvet, Smooth as fire.
It's imagery stark, whether in;
Winter whites,
Dark greys, or,
The Hustle'n'Bustle of colour's Chrome ire,
With all the things it represents,
Fame, fortune, Dripping from your nose,
Slashed on your skin, love
And Romance, written on your tongue,
Warmer; than all Hell's scorching pits,

And now staring at the sink,
I feel it, so much more,
Than everything.
A clear gauze blur,
On crunched China bone,
And rubbery plastic cartilage,
Like heels into snow,
I sink into the Crimson Ink
And stare into the sink
But how to tell?
Which Crimson is which?
Is all that I can think*.

Is it Love, Lust, Hell, Pain,
Blood, Fire, Fortune and fame,
Romance and Roses,
In all that I think,
As I see more
- and deeper yet sink-
Into how
Life writes it lines
.Deep.
In Crimson Ink.