Red and It

You never mentioned that you are whimsical,

most assumed you to be life;

You never spoke to me as if it would hurt,

but the needle puncturing the veins did;

You never whispered that you are angry,

the syringe tried all means to meet you;

You never explained any is it difficult;

Unless the fresh red sprinkle on the white apron spoke of angst, whims, pain and infidelity.

You brought me up at your whims,

the determined piston pulled you against your caprice;

You played up at times when it ached,

the punctured vena sobered you up;

You dribbled up to the limit at angst,

the unnerved sustained pull denied it;

You never could play whilst it’s turbulent;

Unless the steady dark red self of yours was contained in, steady, calm, lively, fiddle.

You are not all me, you are just me.

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