We are the species of red blood

Listen to them bleeding out the woes of a few years, the long hours and stillborn seconds.
A bloody fine drop of mistakes and emotional crowns.
It’s a good job that you don’t want to even touch the outline of their senses, yes keep your distance and close the lid.
Bury those who bleed winters without summers under the bulrushes.
Wise art thou who will move onto green fertile lands where the light is dapple and honeybirds give fruitful nectar.

The ooze of plum licks their foreheads, no botox for them.
They manufactured a different disease of indifference to cause and effect.

A single one eyed organism consumes the olive leaf, paralyzing the sun.
The conclusion when the soil grows shame and bad seed.

A haunting of the embargo, cold clay without that friend who has forsaken them as the wicked ones, witches and warlocks without spells.
Tis a wise choice to withdraw from the game of clash words and a preference to keep clean in calm clarity.

Nothing to lose for them now with regret’s loose change spent on the floor, kicked by the passerby who reads and wonder of what stories really lay waiting within.

It cuts keenly when driving along and an acute song mutes the ears and so the heart listens, sadness buckles up in the back seat.
The polite ghost asks " What else did you really expect?"

The colour of blood should always be red, not aquamarine or emerald.
We are the species of red blood and the blood that bleeds from her fingertips tonight is crimson in sorrow.

We count on those who loyally float and steer with us the course of our rivers and when a vessel of indifference is built if we dare our self we see more than the sea of unrest.
Our deeds became the reeds and tar for the boat builder, our tears another sea to sail away on.

You cannot bring a non-believer to believe again when there is no water in your mouth and you offer a desert.
The forgiving cup is dry when it has not been touched by the colour of unconditional love.

What is done is done.
Where is the rewind button?
There is none.
What is forgiveness?
Is it moving on with less so there is more of us?

Bloody stalactites have hardened in the corners of their eyes.
They are the living sunset of a chapter closed by the hand of another.

© K S Hardy 2013

We are the species of red blood

Arcadia Tempest

Joined November 2008

  • Artist
    Notes
  • Artwork Comments 16

Artist's Description

What is done is done.
Where is the rewind button?
There is none.

What is forgiveness?
Is it moving on with less so there is more of us?

Artwork Comments

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