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Poison Blood by James Morehead

July 3, 2011

Poison Blood

by James Morehead

They try to touch me:
the hand creeps closer, warily
but shivers away
from my flashing canine smile.

"Oh! Chelsey doesn't want to play!"
and they leave me,
with my hidden patch of curdled blood and torn skin.

It hurts;  mud hardens in the wound,
prevents the healing,
spreads the poison
from the mark of rapid jaws.

Yet they still love me,
the naive, blinded fools.

One tries to tempt me away,
with offered meat;
I'm blinded too --
the poison blood flows strong.
I take the hand;
the meat falls to the floor, newly red.
There is no cry, yet terror fills the silence.
My madness clears, the broken hand falls.
Shattering slivers of glass caress my arching spine,
shimmering splinters puncture my side.
Before the poison controls,
I turn to the road.

The headlights carve deep into my sick eyes.
Lying down, I fight my rapid blood
for a torture of seconds,
as death hurtles towards me.

Next in Excerpts from Viewless Wings

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