Anguish Red

Just a poem (:


always a quiet thudding

but the blood

the blood is reaching

oxygenating the tips of my fingers

and it takes away the bitter heaviness

leaves a subtle trace of watery salt

and the surgeons,

the surgeons tried cutting off my blood supply

but the rich warm supply overflowed

and my dying cells received it

perhaps just in time; perhaps I would have

bled slowly, for a lifetime

a lifetime of slowly dripping

until my heart would have nothing left

it would have nothing left to pump.

The End

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