Crimson Poem by Charles Darnell

The painters have it right.
Their eye for distant objects
That seem to draw
All toward it
From periphery
Is as it truly is.
I see that now,
As you walk away.

The walkway is smaller
As it nears your feet,
The windows along the hall
Bend in toward your figure.
The lights overhead
Are bright dots,
Smaller above you.

Inside, my heart grows
Smaller too.
Shriveling with each step,
The juice once flowing
Stopped when you
Cut it open to
The jellied bone
And poured out
Around me
Shining crimson.