Red Tide, Crimson Child of Thought

Poetry is dangerous, a hole once torn in your heart cannot be plugged by your finger.

Wrote a poem
scratched an itch
gave idea home
watched it twitch
Cut myself
long nails
sharp eyes
Laughed aloud
to cauterise.

Penned a story
tore the scab
bled some more.

Open wound
seeps all day
lost and found
memory.

Recollections run riot
in my inner spaces
Play on my organs
mind music
heart harmony
steal senses
covet consciousness.

Child conceived
in pain
gestates
in thought
born in ecstasy
its life a little death
for me.

I bleed now constantly
there is no cure for me
but bleeding.

My muse
is an incubus
each written line
a Frankenstein
and even a boy
who says his prayers
may become a poet
when the moon is full
and Jack who seldom
grinds his axe
may one day
find it dull.