Each Red Spot
Was not the lie mine,
by James McLain
and with each red spot could it thus be acquired.
As for me not to be the lie of yours became mine, I am with out.
Guess pressure of my prosecutions
and insistence where your lie, digs the grave.
Coldheartedness it was indicated in my blood of ire, how it ran.
I finished the cut for my pleasure inside of you, it was no more than love of you and of hearts oppressive, it never was, thus I came.
As for applause you, your airs, moaning great displeasure.
It was in contrast of you being vein. Blue and red, I atrophied.
It waits for many bitterness of this thy word, it does not glitter.
I must start again from you.
Pull over thy cover which spans your many years of sorrow.
There it is here, if it dies, above this you do not find me.
And still, all I am to he whom knows, thus is my love, I am.