Slumping over his armchair, with crimson flowing like the sad tears of God from his wrists, All hail the stinging sharpness of this about-to-be murderer, as the poison spreads over the floor like a disease. His last thoughts was a nightmare, lust desire and temptation for two cold clammy strangers, Was it a twist of fate? Determined intentions forbid but falters, to the unintended outcome - He struggles for breath. Hurriedly passing him by, the winds of Time leaves him sitting on a throne Of shredded red ribbons.