The Crimson Horn

The crimson trail disappeared into the night,
I placed the horn upon my lips and gave a shallow bite,
The crimson trail flickered as the note played on the air,
Then melted back, precisely, as the note did disappear.

My fingers clasped the horn, lips, making contact, once again,
And the sound struck out from shattered structures built upon a withered stem,
The crimson trail fractured, slightly, forming barely on the ground,
My third eye blurred against the skyline as I slowly looked around.

Within the merlot needle that was now upon the floor,
I saw directly every secret that it held and wanted more,
My song was flowing freely from the splitting fire on my tongue,
I breathed the passion out in smoke and knew I shouldn't have begun.

In time with every chord I played, the trail played the threshold half,
Until my mind was focused solely on that single crimson craft,
The trail was allusive, darkness, in its effervescent wake,
Despite my efforts to hold on, I felt it tripping over fate.

The creatures of the dark were coming out to claim their sacred rite,
The crimson trail fluttered, disappearing, once again, into the night,
I knew I couldn't stop them, nether daemons from below,
I knew the daggers dripping cold with blood were dancing to and fro.

I knew the poison they possessed was drawing flames upon my heart,
Seductive blades predicted every pinpoint, splattered blood across my art,
The horn fell to the ground, the crimson trail, ashen, dead,
I felt the darkness closing in and knew that nothing could be said,
I felt the darkness closing in, already gone, my veins were red.