The beautiful morning and its pale blue sky
feels to him, like a ruptured spleen.
His mood far from the sky and its crisp air.
It's the color of blood escaping the liver;
a crimson turned dark and burnt like umber
awash in some demonic purplish gel.
There is a space around his corpuscles
that shimmers like Antartic borealis.
It's a kind of dangerous beauty that lures
the inattentives to a downward fountain;
his own personal Scylla and Charybdis.
In the kingdom of animals, bright hues
are oft warnings of malacious company
but inattentives are like moths to a flame.
Hot or cold, real or fake, moths don't care.
(June 12, 2007)
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