Wine Red

 

Hidden deep inside,

From prying eyes, wanting 

To reveal how we are all the same,

But still, choosing to be silent,

Choking on words, but wanting

To burst, flow into a mess into my hands,

The heart of the matter is always a colour.

Wine red, the world at the bottom of a glass,

The stain on her lips, remains of flaunting

Approval, then smudged into ignorance.

The gifts you got me were always the same.

"It is your colour," you would say.

And now I search for the same clothes,

The same disguised passion in others.

Just like mine; outside the dull yellow 

Of pretense, inside the colour 

Of blood running wild in your veins,

Farm horses that never forget to dream

Of running in the moonlight again.