O’ where is that dagger!
So that I might stab away this grief
Let it bleed out, red sweet red.
Y’know, at night beneath the moon,
Blood looks black?
Maybe, if I slice through this meaningless flesh
I might find my blackened soul staring back.
I’ll save a slice of Hell for you, if you’d like
Wouldn’t take much effort, only a limb of mine.
You could keep it with you, at all times!
A memory, a gift even, of love ever lasting.
Rotted flesh, what a lovely parting gift indeed!
Putrid is this soul, anyway.
Let me bleed onto the floor
A pool of redness full of pain.
Anguish is mine name
I whisper to the winds.
Echo the future into the past
As each tick of that master clock
Winds down slowly until I wither
(c) 2002 A Riddle