Anima
what to do for spilt blood,
naught else but to write,
urgently before it dries,
dies, these words,
would produce little affect,
had they been vein written,
draw red out from the surface,
blue or black,
as stilled waters they run,
deeper, drowning in depths opaque,
ink this is my blood,
perception and repetition,
the unwelcome servants of time,
suffer through reliving,
side effect of the subjective,
by the cliffs the wind,
toils but never tires,
a stranger to love's bidding,
floating upon the sea like fog,
fall through the frame,
never down but inward,
windows of sight close,
veiled they drift away,
the mind recedes within,
even as imagination projects,
ether dreams keep the gates,
the soul confined insensible,
night and its oceans,
run on from Marathon,
the conscious life provides no cross,
examination another season staring vacant,
these walls can speak,
only my name,
guilt is the nightmare you know,
will come tonight,
premonitions of a past,
that is present,
the faithfulness of a familiar spirit,
history and hypothesis press,
on both sides,
until all condenses to singularity,
a point abstract and finite,
nonexistent,
guilt is an alter no sacrifice satiates
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