Water mixed with Wine –to cheapen the taste.
Sorrow mixed with Joy –to depose pure bliss.
A piercing bitter taste is left in my mouth;
I have no affinity for things of the past,
Nostalgia does not suit me
And yet the crimson in everything reminds me of bygone days
It calls my name
--beckoning me to the joy of ecstasy--
--pointing back to the days of opaque dreams, when happiness was promised to never cease--
Oaths were for forgotten
Glasses were broken
Whites were bloodied and stained.
The fragile gate to happiness was shattered.
Strangers breached and changed the meaning of
away with mirth –ever so quickly– and replaced it with an indescribable sense of melancholy.
We no longer know what happy really means or
What CRIMSON verily looks like.