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Tainted
Perfect.
From the smallest grain of wood
to the last luminous dust mote
caught in the glory
of the dying sun
Skies brushed with
every shade of red
breeze setting leaves
in motion-
swishing, swaying
blissfully ignorant
of the crimson specks
dotting their glossy skin
Wildflowers.
Their sweet scent,
Mild, addictive, evanescent
mingling gently
with the stinging stench
of salt and rust.
Fresh, but very faint
The taint of gore remains.
Somewhere years after,
There will still be
bloodstains.
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