Fineliner

All the pages, paper cuts
Red streams of what is right,
What is wrong,
Between thin lines, nearly invisible on my palm,
Read too much, know too little,
Scores of ink, a river leading to the sea,
Everlasting stormy calm, it awaits

Or so they say, but right now,
I can only remember those few words,
I tell myself I hate it, hate them, but if I do
Why do they hesitate to be forgotten.
So much bolder when compared
To what I should have prepared,
My open exit, my way out.

I take what would be a rusted tin,
About seventeen centimetres in circumference,
Brown and boring basic rim,
Copper crust around the one side of the circle,
But inside,
Hot melted dark ruby liquid,
Take the cylinder with both hands,
Like a shot-put of change, fling it,
And yet never let go, the tuneless bell, ring it,
Feel the smooth imperfection shedding, flaking, shaking
Under your skin.

The walls,
The floor,
The ceiling,
The door,
All painted red.

And those pieces of paper,
Nothing matters any more.
Can't see anything, can't make out anything.
Words have become hidden
Under the frantic fear.