Old Blood on New Hands

Written by: Ph.d Volo Von Wolfenstein

The morning, waking,
sun sitting high in October clouds,
breaking, new light in the sky,
shaping roses,
into
flat pastel blue,
spread out like a canvas:
You, 
her,
passed away, 
no future, I think,
She winks,
blinks,
forgets me,
dies,
in the darkest hour,
and I
walk the sidewalk
setting fire
on chalk-white death:
old blood on new hands.