Blood In The Wind

There is blood in the wind,
hand over tumble,
oat-cracked coal.
Its iron terror
is coughed at our vinyl gums.
They shine submission:
pity us weak ones.

Rain-wet rats writhe, wide eyed.
The maypole is tied with rainbows of rags,
useless flags.
The dancers are the smoke of dreams.

The horizon burns.
The air hangs with strange screams.

We cower and wait.
We cower and wait.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.