Magenta

My centre not middled,
Dwindled low, beneath, below,
A belittled cordate soul,
Just a box lying in a hated hold,
Folded corners tight,
And my sight blocked by boards across condemned windows,
Lost eyes are hollows,
With pools suck down these holes in which nimbostratus follows,
Clouds of tears flow, outside and in,
And I begin to choke on evaporation,
My condensated lungs are compensated with nothing,
So I breathe less and cry more,
I am foetal, slowly drowning,
The sound, drip, drip, dripping salt water,
The rise socking the tapestries that hangs on my inside,
Around the walls wide,
And the wise weaved memories of my past are the twine now loose, and pulled,
Fraying ends are my mind slowly loosing, the colours dulled,
I am no longer choosing my form,
Inside, the storm holds my thoughts and the wind violently bashes the windows,
The breeze slows then hardens, quickens, intensifies,
Why this wind blows,
Why my mind the wind chime, and my body held by strings,
The whiplash stings, and the cloud still bleeds,
Feeds weeds now vine around my wings,
I fall like a rock, a stony adversary, an inhuman wretch,
Shakespeare knew me,
Painted these words magenta and spoke them with clenched teeth and a stern fist,
And this leap into sorrow, into anger, ripples the reflection causing sections to disappear,
And so do parts of us, and in fear we watch the recorded film slowly taped over by the eaten past,
Nothing lasts as I turn my head past my shoulder to see the young person killed,
For forward is older,
So I enter it one foot in front of the other with a scream and a shout,
My throat hurts as my mouth fills with muck from my own dug hole,
The dirt is my soul shovelled by myself into a muddied heap that I climb so I can stand on my own pedestal,
I am such a fool,
For my feet sink in the mud, the blood,
My centre a thick cooled pool of Magenta.

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