The Crimson

in this land of crimson manic temperament is an Olympian,

I panic infinitely in a span of instances as I reckon with how damn intense it is,

a panoramic glimpse around the planet and your camera lens is drenched in it,

I cringe amidst the crimson kisses, intimate,

as a kid I was enamored with it, analytic and a bit defensive,

the crimson crushed my impotence and handed me an impetus,

I consumed the crimson crayons until the other colors scrambled from the canvas,

but the hands of clocks have ticked and tocked and crimson rarely languished,

now the burden of its presence is my very language,

I scurry to evade its essence yet I beckon its caress and effervescent touches,

I’m toughened by it’s crutches as I grapple with it’s crushing clutch,

I’m echoed in its dust as it musters in me love and lust,

the paint is plush as I tremble in the shadow of the crimson brush,

it's the caustic crimson clay that closes in and smothers me,

the compulsion unrelenting as the shame befuddles me,

the crimson hues that amuse my blues so suddenly and crystallize the tension tugging me,

the crimson heat that beats on me so dutifully yet gifts me with perspective to erect my view so beautifully,

that contextually considers me, tempestuous,

sexually belittles me,

viscerally trickles atop of me fickly and gifts me with epiphanies,

the burden of the crimson crumbles as I scurry listlessly,

surreptitiously the curse unearths in me an urgency,

a life of adventurous tightening tension wrenched in right between frightening and delightfully striking instances,

the crimson micro-instruments incrementally syphon into this sentient life sensuous highly hypersensitive sentiments and a sense of likes and interests that nightly invoke the sight of knights who fight for princesses with the likes of Viking vengeance without a slight resemblance to anything that might be an end to this type of temperament,

it’s likely codependence,

the crimson might be invented because I’m indifferent to what’s mentioned tritely and in its sight I might just cling to my propensity for righteous English,

there is no chance that I'd extinguish this fight within me, it’s burning brightly,

the difference between flee or flight might be inches and in that space I serve my life sentence,

crimson is my master,

rapturous aftermath punctuates my pasture as my past fades,

the ashen crimson cascades and slithers amidst the grass blades,

persists far past my last days and finds shelter in your laughter,

that covetous crimson color envelopes me simply to embellish me,

arrogantly, elegantly, relegates me to celibacy and then elevates me to ecstasy but never tells me what fate awaits me or waits for me patiently,

it simply compels me,

amidst concentric circles I sit and wish for hints of purple but it’s just crimson guilt in which I wilt,

it’s considered sacrilegious by this crimson lascivious miscreant to ask forgiveness,

so I just bask in bashfulness and laugh and ask for kisses in this masochistic mischief,

haunting kindness, taunting crimson lure,

if it even senses insubordination it’s instant gore,

inches of unorder are met with centuries of torture as tentacles contort to cleanse impurity and clench the core,

it sensors me I’m sure but I’m into its abhorrence,

this crimson is intrinsically linked with me in lore,

so even if it mentions or just hints of being bored I feel ignored and insecure,

I’m defenseless in this senseless war,

and it’s then the crimson senses in me horror and enters in the door to comfort me cuz that’s what friends are for.