This poem is a sestina, so it’s format is a bit strange. Just don’t hate if for that. You can hate it for any other reason.

To destroy a heart of crimson
Will turn it to the coldest stone.
Blocking out the biting guilt
Is bound to bring a greater loss
Than the loss of the angels’ grace
Upon the battered soul.

The freedom of a soul
Is not bound to flesh and blood of crimson,
But found to be part of a gentler grace
Than the most sculpted stone.
And with the loss
Of a love there will be guilt.

Not a moral guilt
Of regret; guilt of missing that lovely soul,
Which stains the loss
Crimson
Like rivers of the dead upon stone.
In the end you die without grace.

That missing love was full of grace,
Never a moment of guilt
To be felt. Now the heart is a stone,
Which cannot contain a soul.
Vision is fogged with crimson,
Not able to bear the loss.

There is a loss
Of light in those shimmering eyes of honor and grace.
Now the floors are stained with crimson
Guilt
That burns the soul,
Like a ring of jagged stone.

Enveloped in darkness, steel and stone,
His heart is at a loss
In the death of his soul.
He has a demon’s grace,
Without the feeling of guilt
To slow the flow of crimson.

Death lies on the crimson stone
With no guilt over such a massive loss,
And grace is present only in the kindest soul.