Wonder at the hands,
hurt or nothing,
just the crimson
ebb.

The painted dark square
of life toils endlessly
to receive the scarlet
flow.

Tears would cover pain,
mingle with and purify,
but there is no peace-white
drop.

The hand is crushed.
Dark red flows endlessly.
Now rushing, bright red spatters,
canvas scatters, hopes
fly.

Boiling up now, clear drops
bring relief, lightning
flashes, cold silence
streaks.

Passion ends in tainted
scarlet hue.  Blood
saves the man whose heart
bleeds.