The Color of Blood

I am a kaleidoscope made of broken things
A reflection of no discernible pattern , feigning symmetry
Each shard therein, a memento of someone I once loved
Slowly burned into my skin lies the color of your touch

I am a kaleidoscope of no particular beauty
The patterns repeat, the colors mundane
On each broken edge I bleed, ever so subtle
All images turn montone, the color of my blood

In this blood lies no fecundity
Nothing comes off the thousand cuts on my being
There is no meaning to this longing, this poetry
It’s just me bleeding all over the place

Come hobi, I can color thee red too
Touch you with blood stained hands, in places to and fro
So on you I leave this lasting imprint
The warmth in your heart, the blood on your being


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