Battlefield

From the shy blush of roses to the brazen winks of rubies, all shades of red make you smile. Even the mischievous dances of fire elicit a grin. Until this red.
Slithering across the ground, it seeps into tattered uniforms and broken skin. An endless sea washes over the land and streams into the sky. This red hangs in the air, sickly sweet and reeking of rust, where it poisons and chokes. This red is more than a color. It is a thought, an action, staining anyone it meets. Your vision pitches sideways, and you reach out, groping at air. Dull pain pulses along your torso. When your vision focuses, you sit, and glance at your hands. They are stained. A manic laugh bubbles from your lips. This is not the red of roses, or rubies, or fire. This red is death.