Poetry, Quill

Crimson colossus

As if the sun hadn’t gleamed enough,
It shone off the face of ‘gratitude’,
Glorious was he, king of the seven seas,
Glorious bastard, the warlock of lies,
Glorious indeed, a long ashamed,
To look in his children’s eyes,
The beggar that sat beneath his statue,
Has had no shade enough to sleep,
All I see in the statue’s eyes,
Are fountains of crimson, running deep,
And its lips do bleed,
Blood soaks its feet,
Perhaps, a drop at a time,
Or all at once, I smile,
For the crimson colossus that I see,
Has its features crooked and vile,
The crimson colossus that I see,
To you is a marble paradise,
For I know behind his benign smile,
Is where the sinister demons lie.

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