Blood Flows Like Champaign On a Wedding Day

The poetry I write seems harsh it seems sad and powerful, sings songs and pslams to the sorrowful soul, sung its song in the past of sorrow in all. The poet's blood flows like champaign on a wedding day of young couples in love. Champaign that flows like rivers and streams in the green plains of Mid West America, and the poet writes about the land and the bird that sings afar in a tall, old oak tree thick at barch with experience and age. The soul burns and cries out to be freed, yet sits and reads poetry till the crack of dawn in an old apartment house on the second floor, and the rats run along the walls, and the cockroaches in cerial boxes, with shotgun in lape and cocked, ready to fire, one in the chamber. Whiskey in the lungs, and whiskey on the ground, in the hand and upon the feet of a sorrowful soul, filled with pain and age, age full of tender love that never was discovered by any naive soul. One time the clock ticks and tocks, echoes rings in an empty mind, that echoes the sorrowed mind and tortures the pale soul. One pull of the trigger, and the sound of an explosion of faint silence and a smile on a face of a dead man is shown in the light, and watch the blood flow on the white pannel wall, flowing like champaign on a beautiful wedding day. Two weddings and a funeral... -11-1-2013-