The Parquet Smeared with Bright Red Paint

The parquet's smeared with bright red paint, The soul is killed and on its final breath. Shot dead for shooting glances, Sending lines to the heart in an awful rush. And IT has long been rushing, doubling in a foxtrot, Flooring the gas so the needle would lie flat. Spitting on WHAT lies around the bend. Spitting on the fact that the squirrel will soon drop dead. Shot point-blank, with no chance at all, No caresses and no foreplay of any kind. Without figuring out any nuances at all. And not out of malice, but just to see what happens. So it turns out heaven and hell are just an ordinary morgue For dead souls rejected by their owner? The Lord and the demons keep up an eternal haggling: Some want to save, the others to snack on the little body. Prayer, like a surgeon, will remove the bullets painlessly. Forgiveness is a needle to stitch up the wounds. Service will make sure they don't fall asleep again. Love will fill the pockets to the brim