In the red hides the crack of dusk to dawn preying down on their heavy hearts.

At the edge of the silver blade is the aura of bloody water streaming down their backs.

In between the seasons, the merciful water flows down the bricks of last hope.

The last feathers tiptoe through the Valley of Light, only to dance on the cracks where darkness leaks.

Defeated and drowned, they stare despairingly into the wild colors of the mocking sky.

They toss their blue misery to the wind for it to return as a bottomless drink of booze.

Jumping from the silent night, they forget the stabs of swords drawing through their cores.