Excercise #2

Frostbite.
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
virtue
that screams the world red.

It shall be disemboweled.

Alive.

Blacklight.
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
killing
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.