orange

A slick of orange ripples across the lake like barrels of paint spilt and left to mirror the ball of bright that sustains our existence. If I caught a fish in the reflection it would bleed orange and in eating it my skin would turn the color of gumball tree leaves in autumn and glow like jackalanterns on a spooky porch. My would then push sunkist out my veins and across my pumpkin skin back into the lake of fire/ home of the morning glow that emitts warmth like the bottom of a log in a fire still glowing from the night before.