Dark prince

the moon—Full, and scarlet in color.Bitterly, he crushes the rose in his hand;Then lets it fallTogether with a drop of his own royal bloodRed as the rose itself,Drawn by the thorn.Again he is forced to battle with his own dark natureAs he storms form the room in his usual black mood;Leaving the rose behind,The blood reflecting both the crimson moon andThe heart-wrenching agonies of love and hate fused.Outside he leaps and soarsLike a comet through an endlessRibbon of diamonds.He lands with the grace and ease of a cat on a rooftop,His mind on the ruby moon,As the world around him dreams.He sings to the sky,His cry as controlled as a whistle,As he fights a losing battle against the demon within.Searching for something within the very depths of his soul;Searching for something he knows he will never find,As he paints our world with buckets of it—"It" namely being blood.