The title reads "Petite Redhead"
Pity it is content
With filth

A record recycling junk
Strums together a jingle
Echoing its own hollow verse

Triggers and pins
Always seem to accompany
The gun

The grip is soft
Side rail cold and beautiful
Like an old bottle of ***

My mind is sporadic
Seeking any conclusion
Requiring nonsense to fill the gap

Deceitful fingers
Lingering
Ready for digging

Her body still warm
Acting as a proxy pillow
The compromise of comfort

White to red
Crimson stains not withheld
A result of the rolling tide

Wrath of blood
Brought to fruition
And supplementation

To feel nothing
Is blissful and pure
Welcoming to heaven

The taker of life
Listening to a Redhead
No realistic sounds beneath