133.The Masquerade Of Midnight

The first somber sunday of September,
Was a night I do recall quite well,
And on that night was a frigid murder,
With quiet night pierced by obnoxious nil,

The victim with life escaping his soul,
Willed a will to be his sole dying gift,
With death on door and life locked in a hell,
The murderee couldn't stay so he left,

The murderer standing slant among rocks,
And waves dispersing blood upon the shore,
And rex red blood adheres to sordid axe,
Another life lost to night's careful care,

With criminal masquerading as brave,
While the other's given a tiny grave,

As always,
ZenMercury,