Excercise #2

Where his fingers trail,
can you see it?
On the wall--
black with grime,
green with time
the brown crumble of
brickwork and
ragged grey mortar.
And now white
with his blood,
stained with
that love
of a vice beyond
that screams the world red.

It shall be disemboweled.


Where his eyes were pale,
can you feel it?
On your skin--
pricked with fear,
damp with tears
or the acid translucence
of hailstones
and rainstorm.
And now stiff
with his gaze,
entrapt in
a maze
that keeps growing and
the high jagged walls.

And he likes it that way.
It makes him feel better.

It keeps the boy sane
when he plays the blood-letter.