The crawl of the red death flowed to make the
crimson floor, spreading out from the mortal wound
did pour. Lifeless limbs, lay in fetal cramps clutching
at hope which never arrived. Laying amongst the
glass of lamps, for a battle of his last breath
deprived. Fingers twisted in obscure positions that
went in all directions, his legs were free, and cut in
three, placed by him in sections. His dark burnt
chest from a blow torch test was one of many lessons
taught. "Hold your tongue, or face the fun",
unfortunately the latter he sought.
