Struggling to cram together the trees and the shapes
and the colours and the fury of it all
but there's interference
even here where I can touch it
there's too much interference
and the red still seeps in
and I can't even cross it out properly.

One perfect triangle (nearly) near the Chinese Village
on the sea near the mountain o' trees -- centerstage
Failed arrows intersect the snow-capped peaks as leaned-
on fences and palm trees sway in some invisible breeze.

The tree, the lone tree, the one discernible shape
(if you don't count the TIE fighter, which, of course, I do)
stands tall, firm against the abstraction where it looks like rain.
Whitewash creeps in in a mad attempt to conceal the red
but only manages to form a slim stump.

Under all, the kindly sage tends his asian garden underneath
the perfect triangle, which, I now see ain't so perfect.
The dim outline of a headless man -- victim of crimson --
stands waiting for the final act.
Sadly, the curtain has already fallen.