Red River

A poem. Kind of metaphorical.

With a flow as rich and red as wine
It trickles from your heart
Down the pale and transparent, cold terrain,
And the silence this releases
Contrasts all your sound it ceases
As you watch the silver slicing through your pain.

Soon the trickle is a pulsing stream,
the wine becomes so dark,
the terrain is ice, so watch the trickle freeze;
now this pain-filled stream is numbing
though the river keeps on coming
for a while, things are calmer and you dream.

From outside the frosted, curtained glass
The moon and streetlight shine
And you move - the silver catches shards of light;
And the rays are cast upon your skin
The silver turns to rusted tin
As worthless and degraded as your life.

And with the light, as nature states
You feel the numbness melt
And you watch the ice regain its conscious flow;
But now the river's never far
From this terrain’s imbedded scar
Though you’re the only one who’ll ever know.