What he is is afraid
of the echoes in his head
Not of others but of Red
Like the sun without shade
What he is is a silence
Awaiting perfection on a stage
Behind Red curtains, not a page
So give some time for him to break
What he is is a vein
Neither Red, nor too plain
Pace within soft and faint
Like the patter of the rain
What he is is a Red
Not the stop kind of red,
Simply one that never fades
'Till someone gets his charade.