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Tainted
Perfect.
 
 From the smallest grain of wood
 
 to the last luminous dust mote
 
 caught in the glory
 
 of the dying sun
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 Skies brushed with
 
  every shade of red
 
 breeze setting leaves
 
 in motion-
 
 swishing, swaying
 
 blissfully ignorant
 
 of the crimson specks
 
 dotting their glossy skin
 
  
 
 Wildflowers.
 
 Their sweet scent,
 
 Mild, addictive, evanescent
 
 mingling gently
 
 with the stinging stench
 
 of salt and rust.
 
  
 
 Fresh, but very faint
 
 The taint of gore remains.
 
 Somewhere years after,
 
 There will still be
 
 bloodstains.

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