red ink runs
from my fingers
onto satin
mental sheets
and the bed
in my head
becomes my canvas
stained in vibrant
truth

fingers
caress pillows
into stone tablets
where words
are impressed,
left to dry
in the morning sun

slices of daylight
peek in, like
curious children,
through blinds
that protect
my anguish
as best they can

but the ink
still runs, pours
from my soul
no end, no mistake,
no warning

I am running, always
searching for the white
to soak up the red
saturated on the page
spilling, splashing,
splattering my words
into poems

10/10/2001

Author's Note: Blood Books: Historically these types of books were used by wealthy families, most notably in the Caribbean, as a method of tracing family lineage, to ensure the blood line be kept 'pure'. Though I certainly do not admire or condone these practices, learning about them sparked an idea for the poem you just read.

Posted on 10/10/2001
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