Brawl

The sky is crimson at his feet
All eyes are upturned.
His battle is won, yet, none left to praise and none to slay.
 
Days are numbered by the cuts,
that bleed not love nor blood, but
a grey residue, brittle and cold.
 
Bars and bars that lead his life,
now ring it; cold and grey.
Murder! Murderer they say.
 
 
 
 
 

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