Evening Bloodshed
It was blood-red;
it should have been a pretty sunset
but it had a too open, too inflamed eye
It should have been spectacular,
yet that blood, it ran downwards,
it dripped into our own open eyes.
As we looked,
as we saw what the blood saw;
that silent voice of our hidden blood
cried out
like one wounded animal.
In a way it may have been beautiful,
the way death can be when left alone to be unseen
but that blood kept pouring
and the sky kept smearing its blood
over all the wounded animals.
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