On blank grey wall, with blank grey door, I saw a place where I could stay. The scarlet letters, scarlet signs, made chaos in communiqué. I lingered here, by whitewashed wall, the cinderblocks became my friends; I know no more, it seems to say, if this is where my journey ends. The path here was a toilsome one; through red-hot flames and pitch-black wells; yet here it seems I must perpend what these two omens mean to tell. The fiery words on neutral wall burn cinders in my sense of place; indeed, my ill-fit resting spot seems far more apt an exit place. Yet others knew it was not so: what was an outlet, now is not- one last adieu I shall not get because of words placed on this spot.
My life sans purpose, now it seems, is like a coal on moonlit sands; at whim of those with more than me, I listen to the words at hand. They speak to me, when others don't, they tell me what can come to pass; this door, it seems, is no more used for what it once had known steadfast.
The sharp red lights cut into me just as the wall behind them soothes; although I wish to stay no more, my benefactors speak the truth. I cannot leave this place I love, for exit is forbidden; I must not stay, or clear white walls will show what once was hidden.
Is that florid enough?