Unbandaged

If this week passes,
What has changed, if anything?

I can not write,
Will not write, new words

Until
A week passes

And I change everything - all of this -

Myself.

Out of purple blossom,

Something to obstruct mirrors and single beds.

Out of pink and purple blossom,

The unprecedentedly sensible head.

Red.

Indefatigably, red is the glow where the soul is.

Quiet sacrifice, a life lost in seconds;

red is a colour.

I have few feelings but am stunned by the grief of the world,
Fascinated by people.

I want to see a lit match present itself thus:

A body bled to death by a hunter.