Harlequin

I am made of crimson that creeps through my veins,

it offends when it wishes, making my will feel inane.

As the blood that used to hold but my metal to light,

afflicts by inflicting a shade par cardinal right.

Then the words become cluttered, when grey matter scatters.

Then etches in stark white, sky lined, papers, of focus departed.

And moments that began with such fun and laughter,

now unfold showing unintended answers.

And the betrayal of skin as it bleeds to the sun,

my catastrophe, a mastery, second to none.

First I learned to ignore the voices that told me as a child.

That this is a nightmare, that this is a trial.

But if the nature of my skin only misbehaves when it’s riled,

and my heart has not ever been left outcast or exiled.

For one’s colour or cast or make of their sole.

What I have faced is but to be glowing and rose.

So for river of ruby that runs through my vessels,

I now find humour in the thing I used to consider disaster.