Crimson by Reshma Mirchandani


The breadth of this skin

lives by the whim

of what might be holy and true.

The art of this war

is nothing more

than what’s broken in brood.

Sent by the might

of organized sight

it made way for the night to solve.

With the dire and heated

amidst smoke, its depleted,

for strength in numbers prolongs.

Crimson is the color that sounds the alarm

for spirits cast off

into a cycle of what’s known and broken.

Peace is the heart of lives that matter

in the straits of

no known tomorrows.

Home is the life needed for all souls

sinking in the entropy

of unequal measure

Reparation is the movement

embedded in

the much needed healing from perfected chaos.