Crimson ball falling without a sound
Bearing quickly toward the ground
Impacting with a force unknown,
Only the pale face countenance is shown.
Bleeding steadily, drop by solitary drop,
Down they plummet to a silent stop.
One drip, one drop right after another,
Pure crimson puddle now formed together.
The essence of life poured as from a bottle,
To form the smallest and deadliest puddle.
Each drip pours from a wound so deep,
That every drip shall drop till he is asleep.
This sleep is death and so never to rise,
And every drip, adds to the puddles size.
As the drips start to slow and then cease,
The soul of the keeper is now at peace.
No more drops or drips to hit the ground,
No crimson balls falling without a sound.
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Comments
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I like how the opening and closing lines were the same, and the rhythm was pretty good. A really small thing that detracted from the poem (for me), was the line "This sleep is death and so never to rise"... The fact that 'asleep' is dead is pretty understood so the first half of that line could be replaced. Overall, nicely written.
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