A pale white canvas clothed in clothes; a scarlet weaving red it grows.      

Though it dries, the rusty red grips; it’s cold utensil profusely drips.                 

Standing in frozen fear, the cries; the sound of howls silent guise.

The feel and touch, the way red flies; the feel and touch as the canvas dies.


A stern bronze mare stirred and snared; a bludgeoned hue red it bared. 

Though it neared the endfold game; its betrayed rider died all the same. 

Standing in sightly skies, the scythe; atop mired pits where slithers writhe.

The sight and sound, the way red spills; the sight and sound as the poison kills. 


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