Written while drinking blood orange soda.

Blood Orange

I struck a match one quiet soot stained burnt evening in a darkened room
And it burned clearly, brightly convinced of its existence
As its head and body shrivelled, I stared at it and wept
To the bitter raindrops of an out of tune piano
That stood nearby, weeping itself to pieces and discord
Its keys falling dejected in a clanging heap like bones of some great primeval protector
Long ago its fearsome charms disintegrated with its strings
Leaving this sobbing shell crumbling beneath my gaze
As I strike another match to light my way as I leave the room

I walked down the heavy sun wearied streets one restless sweaty evening
My feet carried me out past the sordid river, full of tears and broken promises
And I walked on silently for a little while
Then I came upon three wise men, discombobulated and annoyed
Seeking for their sacrificial rites
One of them saw me, and he raised his smoky hand in a disjointed greeting
he called me closer, and bid me hear not what he would say
But I listened
And he spoke of many things, things I knew and did not know but all seemed the same
Then he gave me a blood orange and I walked on

I stared at the orange, round and nondescript in my shaking and unstable hand
It smiled back at me, its red and lusty teeth a shock in its pale sunset skin
I looked at it again and the expression changed
From the sanguine smile of a childish warrior who takes a rapturous delight in every kill
To the contemplative sensual lips of a lover wrapped in lustful indecision
Her eyes wandering to some new and steel hearted plaything
In a cold and envious night
But still her moth eaten heart is lonely and she longs for the release the swirling blackness of the night
And curling redness of this fatal orange may bring
And I stare at the orange
And it stares back, unmoving and alone