I have to ask, my dear sir, and my dear ma'am... to the readers in the dark and the betrayer of a lark.... What's the use of blood?
What is it for and how does it form? Is it for the spirit or the soul.... or just for the human body to manipulate?
I can only recount observation. I can only fork what I hope and expect to happen to this little droplet of Crimson...
Shredded in hate before it's too late....
Like gills it swims upon the first kiss of a first date...
I have no recollection of the wildest experiences people describe yet I feel the same pressure of veins that I choose to deride
Blood foresees my anger. Sheep can be slaughtered and I wouldn't give a damn.
We are all the same, bleed the same color, but many have peeled our skin to reveal that we are nothing like each other...
It's the same thing that rushes guilt down my bloodstream. Yet it enraptures me in a fault line, gathering up from the earth and soiled into the mud like all humans do.
What is blood, I ask?
Give me an answer. None but what we feel. It numbs our senses.... yet delights our greatest feats. I am fallen, misheard of the screams that scars our present wit.
We're all full of it.
Grains fall, teeth fall, bodies fall...
Blood falls...
As graceful as a petal in the morning dew and as crackling as the storm that threatens to ruin what we call home
Like a traveler, we have no home. I have only a bygone.
Against blood there is nothing to discard but a salty, wet drop... tear into the puddles of silky mud scrapping our hard knees into the rocks...
Blood is gone. Or is it not?
YOU ARE READING
No Strings
PoetryDark, chilling short stories and poetry... some inspired by dreams Picture is of the recently discovered frog Mature Content Due To: Mister Tom and the Truth has adult themes. If you're 14+ I suppose it's okay to read; there is no graphic sex, gore...
