The Skies Shed Blood in Blobs

There is no return, only now.

To be born and cut into halves.

 

Like pierced clouds we live

with heads being topped up

as hearts back slowly out.

 

Take sanded paths of grovelled expectations.

On floured changing tables kneaded,

rolled-out, risen, asked

‘Would you like another slice?’

 

Have padded hearts dipped into the jaws

then pulled back up again,

curled under, still red,

still without claws.

 

The skies shed blood in blobs

for yet another while, whilst

people run with buckets full

to paint another wall:

 

‘Rumour has it another heart

splashed over cement.’ ‘Again?’

 

And red wine stains the pain.

The pain, the pain, the pain.

 

As cotton-wool-clouds sink down

to rest for us on Dewdrop Mountains.

There is no return, only now.

 

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