my dear ones,
it is my blood.
It flows forth in black torrents like a
shall we shudder to say, of
I shudder not.
If you've read me, held in your moist eye the work of my
you've tasted of my flesh,
if you've felt me,
that flesh is now made your own
Take here the communion that
only the poet may offer.
| Back to the Wordcraft | Site Map |