If it's an emotion, it's one of a multitude of choices.
Like holding onto someone and watching the moon,
Like the feeling you get while drowning out the voices,
Like strangling him now, in your hands, can't be too soon.
If it's a sight, there are so many there's no way to see them all,
However, the first red you'll ever see is that on the ground,
With a shocked look on his face, his last breath a boarding call,
Like some kind of hellish, damned soul laced lost and found.
If it's a sound, then there are only a few, from sad to loud.
If it's sad, it's a dull red, like a violin that carves notes to bone.
If it's loud, then it's a piercing scream, nothing slightly proud,
Like someone who's found his hand has just turned to stone.
If red is a soul, then there is one, and only one, thing it can be,
And that's a soul's last blazing fight for life, the worst red to see.