Crimson Sky
Such thoughts are complicated in my mind
and confusion draws me onto paths
that I would not otherwise walk.
I look up and see a crimson sky
as blood then pours from my own eyes.
It is brief, yet I know I have to shed blood
So that I can be shown all the what ifs.
She stands again like a virgin waiting,
tied by need to a hobbled gate.
Daddy stands there, as he never had in life
his shotgun, handed down from his father
with its worn wood and smoke dark grey.
I keen to the sound of my child’s cry
as surely as I had cried as a child,
when in a moment he had grabbed and
held me by the throat, leaving red bruised marks.
Daddy, yet in truth I never called him that
He was spun by a mother’s weakness
and was just a tool to bend and bruise.
I watch him shoot the virgin, me
and the blood that pours is clean.
The virgin died, long live the virgin
slain by her own hand.
“Did Daddy die?” I hear her ask.
©EMG05
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