Work Text:
His blood ran black against the crimson corridor,
A harsh cry that rang through the empty halls like a broken harpsichord.
Ghostly echoes and bellows call throughout the long abandoned entryway,
Only a dark glimpse into the past that was forced to make him pay.
Her knife shone bright with the glint of the sun,
A decrepit facade of a blood covered nun.
Eyes dark and hazy with an insatiable hunger,
His blood grew thick in the wine glass that only made her drunker.
His body, an unwilling host to lay on the silver topped platter,
A streaked mess from his chest to his clothes that remained still and tattered.
Children play on the creaking and rickety swing set,
Not knowing of the horrors of the past that meddled with ink stained letters of debt.
A mother's call, a bird's song,
If only they had all remembered the tale of The Librarian's cry and where it all went wrong.