A claim to fantasy,
To pain,
Trickles down my foot,
Painting it in scarlet shades of mistakes-
I'll never know any other color.
A death's head,
A mask of velvet,
Pretends to shroud me in obscurity.
My good sir!
You'll always jest at knowledge!
A black shroud of a glove,
A different place for the blood to stain,
Strokes along his gentle face.
Regret,
(And terror)
Marks him for the taking.
(But how I wish he'd take me instead!)
A crown.
A wand.
A staff.
A weapon.
Which is in my hand?
Oh, boy...
Your claim to fantasy paints us both in scarlet shades,
And now my death's head's lips...
Need I state the mistake?
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