who's writing this story?

I lay
In the blossom of my worry, enfolded
Scarlet thoughts changing to rust.
Possible futures flicker like embers
Possible rationalizations
On how to turn a death
Into a birth...
(or is it the other way around?)

And while the tangled snakes of irony
Tightened around my ankles
In the leavings of their phallic path, they left a message writ-
smeared across my sanity
The rouge of my carnality
Tinted orange with fear.