Drip... Drip.. Drip.

The blood falls from the curved blade,
A vorpal edge painted red,
The hand holding it trembles,
Guided by spirit that does not belong
To the body.

And there she lays, upon the floor,
Sprawled, spread like articulate art,
Decorating the stone with red ink
That will not wash away as easy,
An ichor that colors grey stone,
A death that haunts a mind.

A passing fortold of by visions,
It could not have happened without,
A past that was created by a past,
A never ending infinity,
Woven betwixt two worlds,

Alike,
Yet different.

Drip... Drip.. Drip