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|10||Dew Of Blood|
pale desire to fill blank space
like the wishing well is empty until the
awake to play
and dip the bucket into her womb.
This desire wraps it's tendrils 'round the desperate need for
No one needs to point out
the inverted agression taking place
Self-hatred pulls and floods the inside out
too full myself.
When nothing exists in reality, only a
damp, dark-y bredding ground for a possible future
what emerges might shock the easy hearted
or dumb of mind
the needs fills me at the sight.
It's like I'm the old-age wishing well, bricky and hollow
my children dozed away in the cottages
and I feel sneaking desire
transending all dignity
bereft of nobility
Calling loud to the tots in the dark to save me
And from the dark emerges only squalid
shapes and forms dripping, reeking
blood and gore
Limbs misplaced and
organs on the outside
never at peace.
Silence negates movement
just jot down what I'm seeing
and call in helplessness
for my little sun-kissed children.
They aren't coming.
And all I can do is write all
and move in accordance with a pale
to fill the page
word by word
Though I can't write
I'm only a children's wishing well.
"God grant me distraction."