Red is the color of the blood in our veins,
the color of our hearts, the color that maintains;
these bodies of ours and within them our souls,
things if left without we'd have nothing but holes;
empty cavities, pointless extremities.

Red is the color of our anger, our hatred,
things we wish we could've predated,
things that make this world ever grimmer,
making our future to come ever dimmer;
by fear shrouded, by darkness clouded.

Red is the color of our deep affection,
of undying love, such a desirable complexion,
of emotions we'd wish to experience, to feel,
sensations before which even royalty would kneel;
no longer superior, helplessly inferior.

Red is the color of a crimson sky,
the kind in which our days should die,
the kind of sky you'd wish to see,
to view its beauty so inexplicably serene.

Thus, is red the color of existence?
The color in which all things have consistence?
Surely some would probably say so,
But for others it's just the color of tomatoes.