Hearty Confessions

Where blood washes over

A soldier's thoughts

Where dark clouds are pregnant with bullets

All thunder, bombs that went off

And lightning the speech of guns in dark nights

And even the thoughts

Of the warm hands and lips of his

Wife waiting can't save him

From the abyss

Where every fragrance smells like a slaughterhouse

And all flowers are dark

Wilting, drying, crushed, riding the cold upon touch

Like dust motes upon sun beams

On that cliff at the doors of hell

Where death teases the begging man

With swaths of his scythe

Only to behead him by the springs of hope

On that cliff your melancholic beauty and tears

Dropped like blood in a glass of clear water

Like blood upon the whitest of snow

Like the calm before the mightiest of storms

Like silence after the echos

Of the church bell's gongs

And I was saved by your pain Fuchsia