Too Good

Dissecting the silence
Awaiting your call
Picking at scabs
Old wounds that
Never seem to heal
Candlelit rooms
Shades of red and grey
Solitude maintained as
Penance for pleasures
Imagined or real
Monotone cloaked
Weaving the strands
Fabricated reasons
Carrot then stick
Contrasting angular spaces
A world turned at right angles
With all I beleive
How can such
Brilliant visions
Breed such
Terminal
Sanguine dreams