Steaming blood, stirs through vessels and sinews
up to the shells of my ears, flushing in malice:
deep-seated blows of vengeance, tugging at breaths undeclared,

such a spiteful feat. Sins from our disquieting chronicles
unfurl in ways too familiar, too easy, consuming inwardly as a chimaera
feeds on silhouettes. I lay acquiescent with each blow.

I have no lust for detrimental retorts, or blame, The Blame;
certain things should not be spoken of from an unkissed mouth
that plays only with teeth that no longer bites, full with

soliloquies tripping onto one another from fatigue. I open and close
my eyes amidst the redness of it all, the arrowed
movement of hauling heat northbound, leaving the toes cold, stunned.

Songs. No use to sing. Too familiar, too easy.
From your marrow a terrible preach, a drum that quivers the wrong nerve,
or was it I, imposing, fire-driven on otherwise a gentle day.

I see blood, not the murder kind.
I see blood, anonymous rouge accusing something else
staining soft-fuzzed skin: the blame, the blame.