Mean to the Nice

Silently, but surely,
crimson runs from her eyes
because instead of salty tears,
it is hot blood she cries.

Tis from her lips
blood comes pouring out.
Her mouth is now open wide,
instead of her usual pout.

However, with much pain,
crimson spills from her ears.
It does not quell, though,
any of her growing fears.

Rouge covers her complexion
as blood seeps form every pore.
It is at this point, she wishes,
that she was dead and no more.

Now deep crimson takes over
and all you can see is red.
Death has come today
to do exactly what is dread.

With his silver scythe
he swings and gives one slice.
Now she must suffer forever,
because she was mean to the nice.