red spider, red stain
As the red crimson
slowly drips on the ground,
it takes me a while to process
that that beautiful deep red
is coming from my wound.
I wonder what caused such damage
on my body, my supposed only home,
and why I feel no pain.
The drops of blood
leave splatters on the white tiled floor,
dirtying the canvas
that could have held the footprints
of explorers and artists
but instead met the misfortune
of my arrival at the scene.
I look at my surroundings and I see
red flowers I’ve never touched before
but somehow know how they feel surrounding me,
somehow blooming from the ground
underneath the white tiled floors.
The wind blows and they dance along
to the unique tune that it fills their ears with,
and I stare openly and unashamed
with my demise on my hands.
Many seasons pass by in their sheltered place,
yet my doom still hasn’t arrived.
Consequently, the flowers have met theirs
with each one’s petals floating on the air’s stairs
for what seems like hours
until they finally rest on the tile.
My red-coated abdomen pleads for solitude,
but I am numb so I do not understand its signals.
As the petals smile sadly,
meaning to start their new chapter,
all I feel is dread
for they never asked for me instead.
I watch helplessly as the colour slowly drains
from the face of their petals and slowly turns into blood,
almost identical to mine, dripping down in a line
getting closer and closer to me.
The lines of blood clear out my vicinity
and demolish any leftover tranquillity
until they stop
just 3 steps away from my feet.
The abrupt pause forms perfect dots
at the end of each of the lines.
From those points emerge statues,
standing straight and tall
with their shadows towering over my figure.
Slowly, each one pronounces their name.
I do not remember them.
Instead, I remember the fear clouding me.
I remember their symbols
tracing their facial features
creating their imagery on their own,
as if to taunt me for turning sentient.
I close my eyes to drown the scene out
but the sounds still flood my brain,
completing the haunting nightmare
that stood before me.
Slowly, a quiet voice broke
the loud silent rhythm of the drops of red
dripping down from each of the statues
on to the floor.
It said in a voice both chilling and calm,
“seek out your soul and find only its traces.
Find your heart and see only its failed system.
See your memory and watch only the haunting.”
I tried to trace which statue the voice
had come from, but came to find out
it was a voice only present
in my own mind.
The statues collapsed headstrong
onto the floor; each forming a puddle,
slowly explaining
and covering objects galore.
Each expanded until they reached me.
They hesitantly stopped just inches before
they could touch me,
as if asking for approval.
With a shell of my soul,
only a destroyed heart,
and a memory, tainted,
I dove headfirst into the puddle.
It expanded into a stream of red
then lead to an ocean of blue.
Who would have knew?
The dark cast dissolved in the light,
discussing my being
as one as clear as the sky.
And who would say otherwise?
After all, I wasn’t the only one of the corrupted.
to the unique tune that it fills their ears with,
and I stare openly and unashamed
with my demise on my hands.
Many seasons pass by in their sheltered place,
yet my doom still hasn’t arrived.
Consequently, the flowers have met theirs
with each one’s petals floating on the air’s stairs
for what seems like hours
until they finally rest on the tile.
My red-coated abdomen pleads for solitude,
but I am numb so I do not understand its signals.
As the petals smile sadly,
meaning to start their new chapter,
all I feel is dread
for they never asked for me instead.
I watch helplessly as the colour slowly drains
from the face of their petals and slowly turns into blood,
almost identical to mine, dripping down in a line
getting closer and closer to me.
The lines of blood clear out my vicinity
and demolish any leftover tranquillity
until they stop
just 3 steps away from my feet.
The abrupt pause forms perfect dots
at the end of each of the lines.
From those points emerge statues,
standing straight and tall
with their shadows towering over my figure.
Slowly, each one pronounces their name.
I do not remember them.
Instead, I remember the fear clouding me.
I remember their symbols
tracing their facial features
creating their imagery on their own,
as if to taunt me for turning sentient.
I close my eyes to drown the scene out
but the sounds still flood my brain,
completing the haunting nightmare
that stood before me.
Slowly, a quiet voice broke
the loud silent rhythm of the drops of red
dripping down from each of the statues
on to the floor.
It said in a voice both chilling and calm,
“seek out your soul and find only its traces.
Find your heart and see only its failed system.
See your memory and watch only the haunting.”
I tried to trace which statue the voice
had come from, but came to find out
it was a voice only present
in my own mind.
The statues collapsed headstrong
onto the floor; each forming a puddle,
slowly explaining
and covering objects galore.
Each expanded until they reached me.
They hesitantly stopped just inches before
they could touch me,
as if asking for approval.
With a shell of my soul,
only a destroyed heart,
and a memory, tainted,
I dove headfirst into the puddle.
It expanded into a stream of red
then lead to an ocean of blue.
Who would have knew?
The dark cast dissolved in the light,
discussing my being
as one as clear as the sky.
And who would say otherwise?
After all, I wasn’t the only one of the corrupted.