Poetry, Quill

Crimson

In the embrace of silence,
There echoed a faint pestilence,
Lurking amongst the moonlit night,
With stars still shining high,
Ironic that it cometh in waves,
Yet never does it go away,
A graveyard graph it so began,
Yet the numbers piling either way,
Sadness sown, sadness shall reap,
Each breath it took,
Three followed close,
As a cycle that never stopped,
A knock on the door,
A thump on the floor,
And a heart that just won’t beat,
It cometh in waves,
When it goes away,
Crimson is all I can breathe,
Murder, IT’S MURDER,
You killed yourself,
And so sweetly you took my god away,
Ironic, such pestilence, it kills itself,
But births three anew in your brain.

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