Hauntingly red,
hues that of death.
Once it was blossomed,
but now of night
nothing seemed so less of life,
that as a hollow wind.
Tears have bled,
on the final breath,
that none could fathom.
That thought of everything alright,
seems so little trickling on a knife,
thoughts of nothing blend.
Life continues onto its sequel,
but not everything is so tranquil.
All that left behind,
becomes a horrid sublime.
From which only one thing grows,
the Phantom rose.
hues that of death.
Once it was blossomed,
but now of night
nothing seemed so less of life,
that as a hollow wind.
Tears have bled,
on the final breath,
that none could fathom.
That thought of everything alright,
seems so little trickling on a knife,
thoughts of nothing blend.
Life continues onto its sequel,
but not everything is so tranquil.
All that left behind,
becomes a horrid sublime.
From which only one thing grows,
the Phantom rose.
[[I shall putting up one of my poem a day until I have none left and hit a writer's block]]
