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.
You must be logged in to post a comment.