To Be Spilled

 

Blood as currency,

to pay for the impossible,

unlikely and incomprehensible,

never enough, a lousy

down payment on an

unscrupulous future.

 

Never enough,

blood,

to satiate the leeches,

that need to feed,

on innocence and

on corruption without distinction.

 

Blood,

spattered and sprayed,

in Pollock-like pictures of

carnage and misery,

mixed in the mud of

history, legacies of blood.

 

Bloody ideologies,

soaked in gore,

heartache and

the great mystery,

of why we kill our brothers,

over nothing.

 

Sand.

Dirt.

Grass.

Stone.

A layer of blood

between each.

 

The geology of

death,

for the ideology

of death.

Surrounded by oceans

of tears.

 

So much blood,

for so much nothing,

over and over again,

winning nothing,

but more blood,

to be spilled.