A red splash on a canvas,
that was covered in dreary brown,
heavy black,
mildew yellow,
shocks the senses.
The monotonous colors smeared high,
like mountains of Mordor,
sludge the the once white sheet.
In them life is a spiritless trek.
One that most know and accept,
confined for so long in a bland prison.
But the red is new,
something primal,
yet long forgotten.
Like fresh blood,
or the smell of sex in the air.
It sings deep into the caverns.
To hearken it's call,
is to give in to assured destruction.
To not is living death.