The Red. Poem by Daniel Gelinas

A colour upon a canvas.

A single flower in the field of me, and yet there are times...

It spreads like a rash, just as unwelcome and yet leaves a fiery impression behind.

Scars, deep and jagged; never to be forgotten.

The Red can't be convicted, slippery devil*.

Flaring again and again, and then disappearing as quickly as it came.

What to do?

I'm not merely a canvas for this colour, I have others to show.

A painter of sorts, I like to show off all my work, not merely one colour.

And so, I am at a crossroads.

One path holds red trees, red grass, a red day and a red night.

The other holds nights with no colour.

Which to choose?

How can I choose?

What can I paint with no colour, a painter must paint!

Is there in fact more than two choices?

This is maddening, my hot brain strains with the effort to remain working.

Whether I'm steaming or I'm screaming, I'm red like a tomato, even when I'm sleeping.


* devil was not the original word, I had to sensor it to avoid the poem being deleted from the site (the original word began with a 'b') .