For the love of a chair.

He fell in love with the red,
so different from the dull greens
and the browns.
Extraordinary poppy red.
He dreamt of a home across
its vivid cotton folds
and set upon his weaving
with his sticky feet
and his mullioned eyes.
A tinsel webbed constellation
across a red sky,
his blazing horizon.
But alas, for the rain.
It does not care for hearth
nor home
but pours violently where it will.
And so it did,
running his dreams into red rivulets
of anguish, of stranded hopes.
I saw him again the next day,
moving between the glistening greens
and the browns
with visions of red still dancing
in his heart,
making his way back, I am told,
to his blazing field of poppies.

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