Saturday, March 30, 2019

Blood in Christchurch

Purity is the devil
Devising scarlet couture
So perfect any prism

Would fail to refract
Any other shade
From its reflection.

You cannot be pure,
My friend who wishes
To be the sworn enemy
Of miscegeny.

The whitest light from the snow
Commingles the whole spectrum

Of your mammalian vision,
But you tremble and see red.

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