Red

There was once a picture

in which I was so enamored.

Bathed in brown tincture,

as classic as Victorian glamour.

In the picture was a lady--

prim, pretty, pristine.

Her face was so lovely,

with eyes that seemed piercing.

She might have been more beautiful

if various colors were used.

But I was told that only one was bountiful.

Nothing to fuse.

But a strange day knocked upon my door.

As my eyes were fixed on her,

scribbles suddenly scrawled, to my horror,

upon the sepia likeness of her.

I tried to run away from the picture,

but my whole self was fixed on her.

Here I recount what I remember--

the words that formed beside her:

May you hold this little secret,

The lady is with the dead.

But her blood is still living,

Bathing this painting red.

Reviews

[DoormanDan]

You've written something nice here! I had no idea that there would be any elements of horror or anything in this, and when I got to the ending, I was stunned. If I had four hands, I would clap with every one of them. Great job!

[Noel Isaac]

Thank you very much DoormanDan for the review. I'm glad you were stunned after reading this. That's enough to show the poem's power. Thanks again man!