A rabbit to be hunted

A desperate hunger to be sated

The purpose of my Crimson.

The flesh,
The bones,
The soul,

Belonging to not-quite me

A cacophony of undulation

Throat, skin, veins, muscles

All moving against me

Amid Earthen ocean, I can sense it still

That gaze of abhor

Casting eyes downwards

And the cicadas cry out forevermore

echoing

The Crimson,
The Crimson,
The dried-up Red.

~

A bell toll

The flow of the Encompassing

Pearl fangs bared not threatening
just enough

That I reach my hand out for it to bite

And I begin anew

The Hound,
The Hound,
The Beating Heart.