Why must red be steaming hot anger?

Why must red be the violence, the fear?

And why must it burn when you brush it, 

Spouting fiery nothings into our world?

But then why is red the fortune of ages, 

Clinking coins and fine velvet luck?

And why must it be that kind of love, 

The passion of soft petaled roses?

Why must it mean the cleansing, pure stream of blood, 

Rippling with each new era?

Or why must it be the end of our days, when all red fades from our skin 

To leave a pale, icy shell?

Why is it both a sign of great courage, 

Of a warrior keen and still 

But also a halting stop, keeping others away

A warning, but an insignia of will?

So are we really so scared of red, 

Streams of blood under tulip beds

Or not knowing what it truly means

To bear the color, Red?