Black crimson bleeds over the cold grey,
Licking at the dust; a slow trickle to the iron grate,
Down and further down into society’s waste,
Ironic; its gravely detrimental cause becoming its destination.
Thus leaving an ugly depiction of this world’s affects,
On the poor, the lonely and the vulnerable.
Left to implant fear of consequence to that of rejection.
Ugly is the truth, though the concept contrary,
For it’s just what we seek as we live.
Is it what we find as we die?
And so the result of the effects of this world,
Return to the contemptible.