Four Darks In Red Rothko

I'm not there to see but I know I'd be grabbed even from this distance of 3336 miles I feel it there's an enormity in the words 'Four Darks in Red' immersive already I know this feeling the rose petals that fell from a Valentine's bouquet I was too complacent about the spot of blood on my fingertip that oozes slowly and reminds me of death the blood red lips of the prettier girl a lonely sofa when there is only you awake the red rimmed eyes of the tired soul who sits with you when you wake up afraid fingerprints of work worn hands on the walls of your first home the chaos of a sound wave, visually frightening and open to wild interpretation the inside of your eyelids, stretched and covering a whole wall take a stroll inside you own head geometric, organic, planned but loosely come what may, see what transpires there's no perfection - except maybe the final streak of a setting sun a gap where the light comes in to create unique conditions in one single spot emotion daubed into being saturation that stops short of absorbing it's surroundings something anyone could recreate - I inadvertently chose this as my last manicure before I fell apart/became a poet I didn't know it then, but I know it now four darks in red it takes no breath to say the words four darks in red the vampire that holds your hand the lining of your coffin the light you remember that's missing when you open your eyes the depths of the grave I won't rot whilst there's blood moving in my veins there is still time between the blood and the soil