DARK CRIMSON

in of itself, the spilled over feelings
-of lives unfulfilled; their willingness
to let innocence fade into, the pavement
on the side walk, or the front steps transom
leading into the light of a door partially opened
it spills, down in to the cracks with
it's dark crimson flow, to seep deep into
the soil whose essence of; becomes part of
the fabric of life itself-in a constant battle
for the daily ebb and flow, no give; only to take
which no one person can name on their own, yet
with blind eyes, we see it all, continuing to unfold
night after night, with a crescendo of anguish
a mother's cry, splitting the night in half- then;  a silent stillness
which bleeds into a red sky dawning, readying us to prepare
for another night of carnage.

By Michael Perry