Metaphorical Moon

Crimson hues seeping through the cracks on her skin, forming blotches of red on the pale white floors.

She lay on the floor in a pool of blood. 

With the long deserted blade in her hand.

It's rusty edges and blood stained corners told her story.

To some it was a dark sight.

To others a disheartening image.

To me, it was simply beautiful.

Nobody saw the window above her head.

Nobody saw the moon peeking through the window, casting a holo-like semblance over her head.

The moon was a metaphor.

A symbol of sort.

It gave hope to her and to me viewing her.

Reminding us, it is only night.

The demons appear at night, but the daylight is yet to come and with it the expelling of demons.

But then again, I can never know this.

For I am only a spectator.

Standing in front of a 6-foot canvas, in that rundown museum by the docks.

My rusty blade in the crevices of my school bag.

I stand looking at the marred canvas, not really understanding it.

For I can only speculate the artists' thoughts.