There's a painting called
"The Red Shoes"
No one has daintily stepped in red gracefully
I know, because red scatters unpredictably
The hands grip, the red
talks, there I ponder
The path were once as sunshine
as yellow of gold
the blooming at noon
used to be clear as honey
you had to glide with ease
just to not disturb peace
Now the jealous is emerging
through the innocence of self
the heel is a witty trap
conniving and plotting sinisterly
in clinging passion
the great secret lies
on some whimsical young girl
Continue everyday in constant struggle
gripping in blood, so beautiful stepped
she walks forward as if fearless
the hands are dripping
I cannot move, but she can.
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