Your pride may course through but you still bleed red.

In a deep shade, it runs like syrup does.

The grisly wound pools in a crown of dread.

While crimson stain blooms, sirens start to buzz.

There you lay, face down, punched by scorching lead.

Eyes droop and drift as sight is now a fuzz.

Your name insribed on bullet’s blood-stained frame.

‘Twas humility’s sniper that took aim.

-Ephraim Daytona