My red dress says it's calling for a poem

I guess you might know what I mean
If you've ever had the cheek dare I say
To swan into a shrine in brightest beak red

Sylvia Plath wrote a poem about tulips
Their lips turn from innocence into animals
Wild they screech around like a fire engine
Racing through the nun-pure petals of her sheets

Red is for danger running riot in anger
Inside it may be gold yet still it rampages
And we like to pluck its appley wonders
We flinch and reach to eat its temptations

My dress swaddles my body like a drum skin
It disrupts my pulpit of holiest ideas
Gets all lippy at the sightings of angels
It ruffles their feathers and puffs up balloons

I am Arjuna on the heart's field of battle
My spear is now ready to pierce illusion
I stand as a warrior before my religion
Krishna's chariot is running beside me

Rumi speaks of the soul as melting snow
When the thorn accepts its flurry of roses
In the quietness he says unfurls a blossom
Let the tongue melt and become that flower

This is the flower that walks on water
It breaks through the bubble of my fear
It climbs right into my boat beside me
My dress is a sail that catches the wind
Its red is a flag of freedom flying