Epitaph in Red

Each, a single shred,
scar, scribble tattoo of shame.
Each murmur,
behind the crumple curtain,
hiding in rustle shadow,
and curious lace.
 
There walks a demon,
human form,
human heart,
secret demon
of the mind.
Tap and dance,
little horrors
and silver toes,
those missing morsels
of flimsy fabric,
wandering Africa
with the good Doctor.
 
Why is it always red?
It never comes in green,
she's never in green.
Strange,
the faeries always wore green,
she walks with the faeries,
she has eaten their food.
But red is danger,
red is blood,
and passion,
and anger.
 
Whispered telegraph
burns fire in the night.
Burning lives with the fear
that burned books.
Burning hearts
and minds
until the husk
has crumbled
and settled
into a fine ash.
A fine red ash.