The anarchist painted red and black
Across the walls of my mind.
She was ravenous, disgruntled,
Disheveled
And Lost.
A black t-shirt fitted to her waist and hips
With words in white scrawled across
Her heaving chest: "Let us Rise"
Her point was evident to me,
Tonight or any night, and she
Once again began hacking around
About our government, all the lost
Places we could be determining our
Own lives, as the black barre slid from her
Chestnut hair to the floor.
The Indignity.
I met her on a cold Sunday afternoon
Sitting in a coffee shop, wishing they would
Change the music as I watched an artist
Recreate the galaxy in a corner.
I had just laid down my book,
Its red cover glaring up at me
As though scrutinizing my existence-
Or apathy. Sometimes red books make
You think the world is ending-
An idea or possible fact that few are willing
To acknowledge.
She walked up, pointing accusingly at my book
As words tumbled from her mouth about
Lost government, and her mother's corner cabinet.
It was apparently filled with red-covered books,
Hundreds of pages consumed by her malleable mind.
She was looking for answers, she was demanding
To know why they had been written.
I blinked at her blankly, unsure of how to
React to her stream of personal experience.
TBC.
