The Omen Rides, Part Ii
They say that blood runs thicker than water
Ice in my blood
I am cold- I cannot feel
Perhaps a blink of happiness
A pang of disappointment
A twisted, schismatic moment of anger
But not real rage.
His blood is thicker than mine
He cuts his hand
And when he bleeds, he scorches the ground
There will be no disinfectant or clean wound for him
The clot becomes a scab, the scab becomes a sin
And after a week or two the wound is crowned
With a spiky black wreath
A jagged row of rotting teeth
Smiling like a hound
He looks at you with yellowing eyes,
And you begin to bleed.
And the red of your blood shines.
Today there is no bike,
No roar of engine or screech of rubber
He comes like a silent assassin
This time there is no gun, just a set of spiked teeth
The sky is a perfect blue
The air is clear of all but light
But you must fear still
Or else idiocy has indeed taken you
‘Christ, ’ you cry, but no answer is heard
Naïve, innocent, it’s time you learned
That he’s not listening, heaven’s been burned,
His weapon is set to kill
His mind is not there of my will
I’m standing on the bank of the river now,
I’ll wade through the reeds, the silt
Cross to where you are, in silence
What is left if red fades to black?
A scab, or a scar, or a crack
In your skin, in your blood
I pull myself out of the water
Half drowned and soaked
I have cut my hand in the water
But the blood I bleed is darker than mine
Blood wells in my throat
Runs across my teeth
If I find you, will I kill you?
I know I should, and take your blood
But some of me, with a lack of him,
Wants you to live, wants him to leave,
Cut on my hand
Blood in the cut
Order in my blood
And to let it go I must bleed
Bleed the blood from my throat
I push my hand against your mouth
Then I choose
Do I bleed my blood?
Or do I let it clean.
Time to fall. Again.