The Crimson Banner

Be wary of their hand,

For it becomes their demand.



Every point, a period.

Be wary of their touch,

For it becomes their clutch.

Always there,

Nervous fear,

Like you’ll leave them any day.

Be wary of their flout,

For it becomes their doubt.


Baited lure,

Constant suspect to the lie.

These crimson cloths,

The ones of my demise,

That fly when lacking wind’s sloth,

Must they be,

So well disguised?

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