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Description
A slight stir in the corner
Of my sandy, clotted eyes
Means only that the streak of red
Is brushed across the skies,

And through the trunks and branches,
There goes that streak of red;
When every thought that wanders in
Is too big for my head,

A streak of red across my face:
As rosy as it gets,
The tickling in my armpits says
The spiders have made nets,

My words are all dissected
So they'll leave a deeper mark,
When we're pulled into forgetting
And the streak of red goes dark.

The crows have started nibbling where
My neck and shoulders meet,
And gushing forth a streak of red
Each time they cut my feet.