Spare me the history making class.
This is history in the palms of my hand.
Writing itself in the blood of my sins,
smeared across the empty page.
There’s no reason for the rose hue tint,
let’s not glorify the facts.
Let us speak with a double edged sharpness,
free ourselves from the grappling hands of a fucked up society.
Stop listening to the screams of the fallen.
Let them become the echoed stepping stone of reality.
Their sweat dirtied with the mud of indecision and regret.
Guilt etched into every breath they take.
The stench rising from their mangled bodies.
Breathe in death,
let the those floaters become you,
swimming in your lungs as your heart pumps.
Death, life, death, life.
The constant beating of fear.
Close your eyes feel that darkness.
Know in your soul that Satan too is an angel of God,
carrying out the work of him almighty.
So I sin in the name of the Devil
as he drags me down into the depths of hell
glaring deep into my soul,
he searches but cannot find,
for I am broken, but I am found.
The only blood upon my skin is self made luminous sin,
tainted in the beholders eye .
Let’s not dirty with the sweat and tears of a foxes tongue
the beauty of our blood tinged forgotten fun.
Karen Hayward ©2016