Seeing the red

Under a universe of scrunched-up ink-belittled papers,  
I cling to the theory of expansion, wishing for red stars.  
The chimes wail to glorify the god-knows-how-many-th hour passed.  
Eyelids propped open with diesel soaked matchsticks  
watch exhausted hallucinations play out their parts.  
 
The figures live out tragedies, lighters in hand.  
Although I clap, I don't call for encore.  
They introduce themselves as the four humours,  
sanguine, choleric, melancholic, and phlegmatic.  
I'm in grave danger of melancholic overflow:  
"Write it out" they murmured,  
handing me a pen.  
 
Eventually, I saw the red.