Blood on the Wall

My first story-based poem...

I feel the tickle of crimson streams,

rolling down the wall and squeezing through my back.

I gave my eyes the command to open.

And they did, but opened halfway.

I see a carpet of flesh covering the floor,

decorated with blood and pieces of their insides.

I paid a chilling breath to the rotted air,

scented with blood.

I made my mind search 

for the source of death in this room.

I see only darkness, 

offering nothing of value.

My eyes open again, 

to see the grisly scene before me.

"What happened?" I pondered.
"What man devoted this much time 

to ripping apart these people?"

I lifted one hand closer to my face 

until I recognized the same crimson

that dampened the floor was on my hands.

In fact, my hands have more blood

than anywhere else on my body.

It was the thing that took me back,

back to your serene, beautiful face

with eyes as crystal as diamonds, 

with hair as soft as silk,

and a smile that would turn sinners into saints,

a face so beautiful and serene,

told me to leave.

I had no tears to shed to this.

All the morose and sorrow

was all I need to plummet 

myself into the abyss.
I was a fool to think 

this would last forever.

It wasn't long for me 

to find the strength to stand

and walk out of this bloodbath.

It wasn't long for me

to find a fitting punishment

for my crimes of murder.