Scarlet

In the scarlet morning,
on the scarlet ground,
was a man in a scarlet coat,
who didn't make a sound.

He gripped a scarlet-handled sword,
that was covered with scarlet blood,
and his face was as white
as the snow at first light,
and his pants were stained with mud.

In the scarlet morning,
on the scarlet ground,
was a man in a scarlet coat,
who didn't make a sound.

Glinting on his scarlet-tipped finger,
was a scarlet signet ring.
A woman's picture was in his pocket,
put in a golden locket,
things he'd thought to bring.

In the scarlet morning,
on the scarlet ground,
was a man in a scarlet coat,
who didn't make a sound.

On his scarlet chest
was a scarlet flooded hole.
Inside was a piece of metal,
made from a poor man's kettle,
that was taking its fatal toll.

In the scarlet morning,
on the scarlet ground,
was a man in a scarlet coat,
who didn't make a sound.

In a scarlet pool,
laying just out of his scarlet reach,
was a scarlet-stained gun,
sparkling in the sun,
with it, a lesson he'd sought to teach.

In the scarlet morning,
on the scarlet ground,
was a man in a scarlet coat,
who didn't make a sound.

There was scarlet at his mouth's corners,
and scarlet on his chin,
when they found him lying there,
his breath long gone with his cares,
another scarlet victim in a war they didn't win.