T’is that night, the dove beckoned
Crimson which spilled cleanly upon tile
Foul odor protrudes thy immobile self
Spread with increasing bewilderment
Involuntary termination, brief time ago
The blade concurred to the holder and thus
Conviction grasped enshrouding circumstance
With hindsight, regret consumes itself
Thyself witness, as the extraction poured out
Dark shadows displace the tool
Miscreant being, shameless retreat
Soft entrance of rain upon glass
Fluid is not swept away, rather
Left of my own being in solitude
Scarlet which spilled clumsily upon tile
T’is that eternity, the dove descended.
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