A perfect circle with a triangle.
Blood splattering on the ground as yet another sacrifice succumbs to His power.
The rage that comes with disrespect towards >i>Him.
The color of his life.
Countless symbols, countless sacrifices, countless fits of rage. All piling up until that was all there was. The sheer amount of blood alone was enough to drown even the most competent of swimmers.
Red.
The color of clouds.
On a new day.
On a black cloak.
A new begining and yet, the same thing. Bloodshed.
Always his own and the other.
Blood crusting on his skin, in his hair, the smell never coming out no matter how much he washed.
Blood everywhere he looked.
A body was 70% water but his life was 99% blood.
Red.
The flow of new locks in the wind.
True and real and beautiful and red.
Not blood.
Hair.
Beautiful, soft, red hair.
Less blood.
More of him.
More and more and more.
Beautiful.
Calming.
Red.