Bonded through Blood

A pact, birthed in home-

Goblin’s wolf, red hued white

Strands clash divides unleashed surmise

Snips of flesh, flooded flaps,

Pressed upon stranger’s touch

Textured, both-errs, where tethered claw disengages past

Change in sky, blue to black

A piercing aura, frosting pine,

Distracts the tint of orange set aback

A growth emerged, where paths mingle

And a new skin forms in tone-

A layered coat atop the self’s repressive ghost

A gathering of clans-infields of pine

Tradition bears the awaken bell-

As screams arise from guttural tombs

Gullets blanket dressed in starvation

Nervous strands a prickled lift

As pungency is detected nigh

Blessed fangs, draped in hues

What once is fresh as red

Eventually grows pink in stain

Doused in dampened soil

Sunken claws at peace in moistened land

Head cricked-jaw bent-eyes high

The swarming sense of frothing glands

Shuttered sweat shimmers jade

Composites of: adrenalin and envy

Soon the circle forms,

Sharpest blades posture compass points

As youth and old aide in fight

The enemy

Descends

In its surround

And then incisors flare,

The cast of ruby alive afloat

Confirms the predator knew not the game it sought

Masks covered in parts unknown

Bone shards shiver, fragmented fie

Rites of passage fade now the scars

Fostered three, taken to

Souls once rigid bend their arms, acceptingly

All tales once told-beneath silk cloth linen sheets-

Horror painted accurately- yet those yarns disregarded

The bond in blood, bound by oaths never said- focal points

Always been- one and one alone- family fights for family- where slain lay- another weeps, and cherishes how they left, in order for them to fly.

Swollen images- once viewed on horror nights

No longer engulf terror into me, instead

I see a picture of beautiful harmony. 

Blood is in everything. 

When I started this piece I had the grand design of anagrams in mind.  The first few stanzas, highlighted in bold, are indicative of the direction I had hoped for.  Yet, weaving two separate tales in one, trying to find the words that would be correct for both, never spoke their voices to my ears.  If they did I certainly didn’t hear them.  The research could have been done, but I have to say I like what came out in the original stance’s place.  I was able to harness the idea I had in mind, as the underlying story I was initially shooting for, which I suppose is the one that wanted to be told.  The other, well, perhaps another day.

The Crimson Bath

Post prism

Depression

Angular dissension

Grandiose

A delicacy, a toast

For those lacking light the most

And so I drift away, to a place I once knew so very well,

A universe unlike this one, a place where homes are carved in stone,

Where troublesome letches rove the dark extensions

Hours in comatose

Stumbling cross the craggy fray

Middling moments

Of great reverberation

Songs of echoic chants repeat their play

Over and over, again and again

I can’t get their words out from my head

Fur placed by river’s shore

In the water I reflect upon atrocities

So soon forgotten despite their retention of warmth

Like spores popping conscientiously

I see my face in its entirety

A slow step back brings my frame to focus

And the memories flood my thought canal

         Painting cornerstones a myriad of shades

The vivid and the off hue

For an eon it seemed to stand

A frozen man, without

Yet amassing swarms of enemies

Bathed in crimson,

                  Not just the flesh, but also, the question marks as well

          How did this cleansing come to be?

                  Was it birthed in pleasure or necessity?

         What languages speak in tongues like these?

And even the voices shake their heads…

                           Why has recollection shunned me so?

To steal the process from the skipping stone,

To dwell so far yet ogle my position from deserted throne

                  Leaving me with only prayers to own

What is the origin of such constructs?  

                   Is it in me, has this been the case all along

Or is it within parts yet to be seen?

Who is the architect of such a mask?

         Were these hands meant for callousing?

If so, then why has the subconscious purged remembrance so thin?

                           Into the crystal wash I walk

The scarlet I desire weakened; pray at all cost it’s forever lost

        

Upon submersion

How many sins shall wash away?

Where will the currents take them?

Will they regret? Will they every truly go?

Will they feel isolation, as they drift along without home?

Or will their next host embrace their cruel glow?

         From phosphorus to dust

From anxiety to life

                  We wash the crimson clean

                           Arising, from beneath the fluid screen

Hair compressed to nape

Levity is quiet still; levity may have died this day

Yet/ Reborn I feel/ lighter than I have ever been

Talking Aloud So the Assassin commisioned to end my Life Can understand

Assassin I know you’re out there,

Hiding around some darkened corner

Sharpening your blades,

Or perhaps you work differently than the last five,

I supposed they told you, I’m much more dangerous than I appear,

Every word I hear sends shards like whispers through my ears

A Blinding language using verbs as fear

Each shadow lurking patiently

I escape their sinister smiles

All those participles, dangling like a shaft of steel,

Draped in blood, dripping clear,

Puddles all around me now,

Streams flow, consuming territoriality

Proclaiming dominance and walking proud,

For all their glory, those mercenaries arrived unprepared,

To challenge me, you have to obtain part of me,

If you fail to lure my sensations close,

You will hang yourself by the same throat you used,

 To etch your side of the pact; to speak those binding words, I will do,

When the Devil asked you for my life,

And try you will, but just remember five had also tried,

And soon you shall understand, the reason they all die; why I survive,

Is that God will always be on my side