Peeking out the door,
seeping through the floor,
the essence of life,
the cause of death.

A heart slowly beating,
a soul softly begging;
the blood has run cold;
a ghost has found its home.

Washed yet remaining, staining,
a story refusing to be ignored.

You close your eyes to unsee the horrors,
but alas! They are screaming your name!

There is no escaping this ghastly haunting:
a story of impulsive desires.

Washed yet remaining, staining:
a story which longs to be told.

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