crimson old and new

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I don't mind the phantoms dancing in my room,
They watch and I stare back with terror.
If he's creating shadows after the doom,
I don't mind creating an unbeknownst figure.

He's shifting sides like clashing trains.
For me it's not so new, it's clockwork.
Obsession turns tables for the dead in the rain,
He definitely has a thing for the side work

In between the gasps and wide eyes,
His passion so undoubtedly a crime.
I didn't mind all the sheepish white lies,
But all I wished for was not the same old rhyme.

I wipe my floors from the boodshed
And lock corpses in my basement.
Nightmares on film reel in my head,
He says the 8 letters while I sense bait scent.

All his white shirts and clean floors,
The metallic taste of goodness so alarming,
And all the smiles and nice things he implores,
Trying so much not to be a corpse I drag without harming.

There's beauty in that aftermath,
Same old tears and sweat.
White shirts stained from the bloodbath,
You asked for the best yet.

We scarred each other so well,
Our canvas painted with bright blues.
We've been dammed because of what you tell,
So I painted the canvas crimson old and new.

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