by Winston Willis

It is always night and there is darkness,
a sanguine blanket draped upon a sinking shoulder,
a cool breeze rippling through the crisp air,
a crimson sliver of moon ushering a gray mist.

Our blood lust is a pulsing skein of energy.
The flavor of retribution still fresh
in our mouths and on our tongues.
Death does not taste of metal
as I once believed it would,
rusty iron shackles now a figment of my imagination,
this revenge coated in lavender and lilac.

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