Red trail, red trail,
Crimson rivers run dry,
Staining the ground,
Bugs and their larva follow,
Scouts out to be the Apollo.

Just another empty shell,
Unlike a glass,
Once filled, it may never be refilled,
Once dead, thou may never return,
To thy corpsed shell.

Snakes shed their skin,
But we cannot shed the past,
Possibly in part, never to bid farewell,
While the demon awaits you in hell.

- Jay M
January 23rd, 2019