All The Colors

Beyond winters chill
there lies a hopeful font of blood,
blue flies,
green flies,
black waters.
Everyone comes up short,
and everyone is a wet-nosed nudge away
from either soothed
or screaming.
There is a film of red over her eyes,
a flood of crimson,
a haze of anger
and well-meaning love.
All the colors of bruises
are hers to have.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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