How is it still that I am I,
and you are still you,
when all around the
bitter air entwines us
with her dirty reddish hue?

How are we still?
How can this be?
Horned red devils wash ashore
aided by our foe the
contumacious sea.

Not long now
sunset's crimson red sight
signals an end in the skies
we kneel hard, we pray,
Red tears
from our relieved,
oh so tired eyes.

by Hannah Mary Joint

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