DARK RED NIGHT


The dazzling black streak of night is really red to me --
A theory surely strange, but not inexplicably
I feel the stars in such a sky are merely souls of all I've killed
and the sky around them bleeding is their misery fulfilled.

The night sky is as charming as a Siren's song would be.
I've always loved to gaze up there, albeit quietly.
It's somewhat of a rest, to subside inside my thoughts,
but macabre's what I am, the definition can't be fought.

I've noticed that a fatal wound bleeds desperately dark,
that crimson nearly black may be Death's subtle little mark.
For every time I see it, a vital vein's been hit --
the crimson is symbolic of Death and Life's great rift.

So accustomed as I am to that, I've formulated thus --
crimson is Death's envoy, bringing pain to us
Reminding us, the living, that our loved one's soon to die
and reminding them, the dying, that their time is high and nigh.

Someone once told me that the stars are those long-dead
(something interesting, a guilty thought inside my head).
I reckon that the recent dead get chucked up there as well;
for every battle fought, a hundred souls up there to dwell.

I don't believe that souls differ that greatly from their bodies
(souls are insubstantial, only dewy misty foggy).
So how folks look when dead is how they'll look in afterlife,
covered in blood and wracked with pain, mind boiling with strife.

This, then, is the true secret of the stars.
A bitter bunch of souls assemble there in war.
In peace, perhaps, the sky is clear,
but for now the stars are none too dear.

It follows then that bleeding souls
should fill the sky with crimson snow
so when you look up and see black --
Look closer! Squint, but don't turn back.

For black is simply Death's sly mask!
Crimson is the color, your deception is Death's task.
The hiding of a piteous soul's plight
is why black is so often seen at night.

I know that my black bleast and I
are under Death's eternal eye
Since for us Death has ridden in
For its own good it helps us win.

That's why, for me, "black" night holds such appeal.
Death becomes me! Slaughter's a hearty meal!
A partnership, hold Specter Death and I.
No longer do I hear the dead men cry.

Neither can I hear my own loved souls.
Such is the price I pay, the heavy toll.
But though Death silences for me the whining of the dead
Death cannot take away the Night, and put Day in its stead.

...

The stars like bits of glass, the sky not black but red
Are powerful reminders of this life that I have led.
Yet there's no other choice but to set a brutal course
and tidy up the path for Death's delicate pale horse.