Blood
Built the Tower,
Blood
Gave life to its walls.
Blood
Is a mighty river
Blood
Is everywhere.
Every woman
Knows it
Every woman
Bleeds
Every woman
Is an open wound
Every woman
Is blood.
Hundred times
I've seen it.
Hundred times
I've felt the pain.
Hundred times
Mine or not,
Hundred times,
Will one more matter?
Dark
As the French wine
Dark
As the richest damask,
Dark
As the rubies of Spain,
Dark,
As the Tudor rose.
Will it flow
Freely, as a stream,
Will it flow
Only to stop?
Will it flow
As the music of life?
Will it flow
When it's over?
They never tell you
Men are liars,
They never tell you
How betrayal feels,
They never tell you
How lies hurt,
They never tell you
That nightmares are also dreams.
It stings
When you prick your finger
It stings
When truth comes out,
It shall sting-
I hope, not a little
When my blood
Shines bright on the blade.
Blood as what distinguishes us. Blood as life, and as death. Blood holy and sacred as of the holy Bloodline. As the wife of the Christ fleeing persecution with their offspring surviving until this day in unbroken lines of heritage. The Bloodline uniting the early Frankish rulers and the Germanic Chiefs with the Pendragons of Welsh heritage, linking the Scots kingship to Irish Chieftains. Legend and myth denied by those afraid of truth in this the era of denial.
Sorry for the drifting off topic, m’lady, but here we are and there we go…now there are signs of coffee being prepared in those mythical kitchen regions. Trusty old Serge is always a pillar in the storm. Did I mention that I enjoyed your prosaic poem? If not, now I have!