hoping for blood-stained nails.
Once it was a curse of my being
now it is my only hope of social survival.
I hope for blood.
Spent blood. Spent life. Life that
never was. Spent blood spent in
the pursuit of spending the desire of the ancients.
Desire of the ancients
fuelled by their texts
imprinted in the souls of their children
and their children
futility unknown to them
They spend lives and entire lives
over the torture and destruction
of what gives them this blood!
of the ghosts of shadows of longing long past
yet the blood holds thrall.
The giver and taker of life,
beauty for the sake of it.
I have no blood-stained fingers yet, and a lot to show for it.