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The blood upon my hands.

I filled a journal up with words-
two-hundred pages at the final count-
each word a thought intwin’d,
and in their meanings was my soul interr’d;
and im fading black to white and back again
to black.

but she tells me that she knows that im true,
that my passion hasn’t failed me,
she says that she sees goodness inside me,
she tells me not to fear. but alas!
I know I’m guilty, it’s what she doesn’t see,
for there’s blood upon my hands.

Tonight, beneath a clear, dark, moonlit, sky
I kneel beside her and she dies.
And all the light which shin’d inside her
eyes is drained from deep within,
and her blood is on my hands, for
as I wipe my brow I’m crowned

with crimson quilt for I have murdered
in the worst degree and my
victim is my soul. And the wind
it whispers softly
of another child’s passing into the
justic of the dead.

And the underworld is rising now
her victim yet to claim
for Cerberus and Charon pursue
my fallen soul.

And we are crossing quietly
the styx that blocks our path;
all the beasts that guard
the gate are silent as the night.

And I begin to fall through
Hades, to Elysium and all
the circles far beyond-
I shall see the worst of all:

the criminals and crimes.

I fed myself a sinner’s meal
and drank a sinner’s wine
and from the bread and from
the vine I’ve fed myself
a poinsoned fall. for I
have murdered in the worst
degree and my victim is
my soul-

my victim is my soul.

Today my words shall remain interr’d
and they shall burn away the time
and for my crime shall pay the price:
my thoughts were bloody, sad, defiled.

This is it, the end, the fall.
This blood is on my hands,
and I’ll be guilty till the end
or till im judged with grace.

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