地狱诗人

He was hesitant.

He paused,

Threw the trumpet off the stage.

There is was,

A little purple thing,

Pale as a phantom,

Who shivered in the cold.

He was hesitant,

The poor fool he was.

So he decided;

Not now,

Not yet.

A funeral should come,

With a soft funeral tune.

-

Flowers be thy mourner,

Thou knowest nought.

Of thy long endless nights of mour’.

-

Though as hesitant as he was,

Blades seem to move of their own will.

The violet was a violent red,

Just another body to bury.

Another story sealed,

Another no one to be missed.

Was this the one,

He thought,

That the moon had loved,

Who now lies in the cold snow?

Perhaps our King needs some time away,

On this rainy day.

-

 @文沫回忆