Its tip tore the topsoil, tilling, as it strolled on it,
Infusing blood into the earth
Pints of blood dripped on its back, gliding through the flat
Making their way to the tip
Its wooden handle could only absorb so little,
tunneling the rest to the back and flat
And the hand of the holder is as red as
the heart as the person that has been butchered.
House flies, their friends and foes already feasting on the exposed
Organs: bowels, stomach, grey matter, and the heart
From which those pints of blood once get their pump.
YOU ARE READING
Fiction
PoetryThe following stories are fiction only because they are fiction. Perhaps they are not fiction because they mirror the realities of our world today.
