Through the rough edges of his un-shampooed hair, the hues seem to melt
Almost as if he’s not blond anymore, has never been that
He’s the color the kaleidoscope’s projecting on his fur-laden head
Just as the red shines, his blood seems to boil with it
This deity of exquisite calm in the previous moment of blue
is suddenly throwing flames and just as that thought begins to percolate
He’s purple like an infant in anguish
Wanting a beating, a beating from this world for a beating of his heart
Slapped enough to live but not enough to lose the will to
The dozen or so scars, lacerations once, on this overcoat of a head
Are they screaming the same tale or multiple anecdotes of varying torture?
I think of when they would have transitioned into masses that refuse to respond to light anymore
Of how searingly red they must have been, fresh blood stains
Blood red
Of how they slowly would have morphed into maroon cement
Of how, in time, it would have chipped away to reveal something extinct
An almost white blob that refuses to interact with anything vivacious
Maybe, no longer knows how to
He has requested for the long sleep tomorrow
I’d let him
