Passion of the blood

Spiders spin their ancient web of sin and salty incubi. Expectancy rests in the bud of their abdomen. The contrast of a true masochist is that he sees his endeavours as a mean to an end.

He flogs the broom of nettles across her back, digging deep into the open wound of her femininity. Her fingers bleed with a death grip. A single bloody tear trickles from her lips. A silent prayer loses itself in stale air of an enclosed space. Not all sarcophaguses are marked with a name and date of death.  Some are merely rooms within rooms whose occupants are still breathing. Cobwebs cling to the corners of rotting windows, paint peeling from wood. Histamines sink deeply into skin. The flagrant air of desire and sweat lifts from two bodies broken in an anfractuous dance. Passion of the blood.

Compliance is no matter for intellectual debate. It is the unjust duelling of brutally with another’s heart. He ate hers. Upon his workbench are rusted screws and unused tools and whiskey bottles carelessly hidden. Oil stains the carpet, the slick of morality. Mortality embedded itself into the lining of her flesh, internal. The lullabies of childhood silenced.

Catkins hang pregnant, swaying gentle of a heated breeze of summer. The iridescent green of newly strung life is beginning to turn under the oppressive gaze of the solar flare. Realities slip further away with the madness of summer. The oppression of learning is not long enough forgotten.

She cast herself into the water, headfirst from the stones steps. A glory of weightlessness overwhelmed the sensation of capture. The magnolia tree cast its shadow in the corner of the pool of water, petals peeling in surrender to the sun. Water flooded her mouth, cleansing the pallet of sound and substance. It is the beginning of a love affair. How many times do you have to drown yourself before you learn to swim. How much brutality must your taste before you see the beauty of violence.

Copyright: Samantha Ledger 2013