Red


she is daisy ladies printed in red
clippings of hair lusty and soiled
her garment of marrowed lace droops over her wicker bound frame like stalactites
plates of soot and bone compressed into fine china
line the robings of her neck
daffodil earlobes hang in the balance
collapsing to the sounds of eternal screaming thunder
her limp dressing gown shudders in the pale moon slit night
harelip shaped eyes bleed sorrows and the irony she casts in the room
her rocky blue ocean shore pupils tremor in the eve
cropped locks of silky oil dark as the sahara wilt upon her scalp
looming upon the rolling valleys of her torso the mop of follicle entwines
for lack of a better word
i'd say she's red

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