Painting Red

There's a storm forming in her mind.
The kind that forces floods to fill her eyes.
She's a down pour of thoughts, an instrument of pure design.
He tries to cross temptation, the torrential words have washed out the line.
It's coming to an end, as sticks and stones poke holes in the air.
The negatives have developed.
The future seems unclear.
She looks to his heart, and finds the missing.
Sees the scar an arrow once left.
Their love now carries among the ashes.
The wind, taking it to a better place.
They were young once, and knew so much more about so much less.
Longing for the when and where.
Now he falls into the then and there.
She was the red in his painting.
The part that stood out.
Now his canvas stays empty, white, calling for possiblity.



"Who do you carry that torch for, my young man? Do you believe in anything? Do you carry it around just to burn things down?"