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Struggling to mainatin control
of thoughts the color of crimson,
walking dangerously close
to the darkness's edge.
Forgotten pain flares
across the wind-scarred plains
like wild fire consuming the
browning grass of control.
Equalibrium has been lost
among the rolling waves,
six to eight foot waves
batter the forty-one foot boat.
Running north in the open Gulf,
trying to escape the pursuing storm,
gentle waves transform
into roaring swells.
Jesting words are thrown in abundence,
each one a needle of pain,
adding to the unbalanced mind,
memories of anger that rise from their graves.
Memories burried and forgotten,
of endless pain and calming death,
resurface through the crumbling
mausoleum walls that held them for so long.
An instant of crimson clouds the mind,
words spring into being,
the will and intent to carry out
the threat of death to another
dye my thoughts
The Color of Crimson. | 
