Stain of Death

The stain is like a flower,
It blooms grimly on the sheets
Gazing at the ceiling with blame
Emblazoned in the centre,
It is not a flower to pass along
With love, it is a flower
That heralds nothing but doom.
Depravity and doom as everything
Empties itself from the womb.
It is woefully primitive
And extremely painful, nothing is like
The scarlet stain of death
That some of us are all too familiar
With.

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