When The Blood Ran Black

The War Torn Man

Death clings to him in a smoke.
Everyone who comes close is shriveled,
destroyed beyond repair;
their petals falling faster than the wind can catch;
ashes swirling around his feet as he walks past graves.
Graves that are only smooth granite,
blank for they need no name for him to know he killed them.
Dust covers his leather heart,
the one that is stitched with sorrow
and patched with plaid.
Blood burns through his knives for hands,
For everything he touches is cut into jagged ribbons,
his fingers bleeding black with the scarlet trail.
So he leaves the slashed corpses for his intoxicants,
his beautiful women.
The women who are left bruised and scarred.
For no one can escape his withered gaze.
The gaze that has seen more than all the demons below the earth.
Ashes falls on him
as rain falls on the weary and war torn.
Despite the guns put into his mouth
and the knives sliced along his throat,
He still dies everyday
because everyday they die.
The deaths of millions
residing inside the mind poisoned by love:
For love is what brought him to death,
And death to black smoke,
And black smoke to the eyes...
the eyes that once were green.
Because in the end,
the war torn man was still human.