Pink and Blue (and red all over)

Fist shakes from rage.
Channeled course.
Flailing bloodlines
caught, snarled,
stagnant, dying spark
willing to be taken down
from fear to violence.
Call wild arms,
breast, sinew, shame.
Chemistry surges, overplays.
One mortal coup de grace —
stolen sword to craven heart
that never grew
beyond desire.
If man is fire, dissolved
into greater destruction,
why does Woman weep?
Why does not grand balance’s flood
of pain absolve and
succor?  Why should fate
deny blessings of daring
release in bounteous blood
to lady fair,
snakes and thistles to braid her hair,
expose bare tortured face?
Eyes that kill in silence,
scorched lips, flared nose,
washed out in episodes of
stoic denial.  Why must
she kneel, vile, victim
of violence, not its cause?
Who makes these laws of
unnatural selection?
Who takes the stone?
Who takes the stone’s projection?
.
.
.
Make Peace The Issue
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