The constant dripping of rain on the ground,
creating a mesmerizing but monotone sound.

Every small drop exploding on my skin,
the sky's tears washing off my sin.

Carmine streams floating down my pointing digit,
cleansing my skin from traces so rigid.

My head arching back into my neck with a whimper,
my red dyed lips curling into a smile that's simper.

The nocturnal blade slipping out of my grasp,
the ichor smeared metal fleeing my clasp.

A crack of thunder resounding forceful,
drowning out my lament recited remorseful.

The heart in my hand doing its last beat,
the wound in my chest a displayed defeat.

-The Crescent Moon