by: Lydia Cross

The porcelain lake runs red
with the blood of silk,
rendering it useless to any other.
Desperate waves lap onto the banks,
try to escape the tainted, red flecked foam
of the water that boils ice-cold
in the once-pristine basin.
Their efforts in vain,
they languish on the marbled grass,
defiling it with pastel pink.
Brightness is hung by the neck,
squeezed dry of the giver of life,
into a hungry mouth now stained like
the seething waters with scarlet
that will never come out.
This is just another laundry day
for a poor college student
with a taste for delicate fabrics