The Road a twisted serpent lay
t’wixt home of blessed hope
and the final tie
where night confines the day.
And in that shallow shadow
of twisted moment’s thought
Red was green and fell between
with some memories he’d brought.
He, chaste lover
and celebrant of clowns,
sadly sinking, slowly keeling,
simply drowns.
And when he died,
from where he fell,
a single crimson stain follows him straightly
down the way toward Hell.
This crimson stain,
no wound of his,
yet set for his defence,
a gruesome, gory, bloodsome thing
is worth all Man’s offence.
