It flew in through the window
while in a probable nostalgia you wallow.
It was a proud crimson delegate
of beauty so presently delicate.
You began to carry it around,
the lucky charm that caught you spellbound.
Because of how bright
it seemed, how light
it felt. Esteemed with prideful exuberance
it was worn upon your chest, brought to a dance,
pinned up on walls like a masterpiece.
You could never picture it stained with grease.
Yet you came to realise its mere blood red
and sensual passion could pronounce you dead.
After all, doomsdays are weightless —
so is the grace of an unwanted carcass.