the coming of age

crawl in and feel the darkness wrap
around the hair ends
standing
as you stare into the scarlet
emptiness
and the beaming black
blinds you in return
scream and hear the ridged
hollow
and deny it as illusory
displacement of the everyday
reach out and taste the acrid
images of reality
and reflect death
on the countenance of the now
shattered rose-coloured glasses
go deeper and smell the
necrotic asylum of sorts
and attempt to
disregard that tingling sensation,
that visual disturbance,
that contracting candle
the heat that awaits.