recording to P. Vierick


i used to be a hemophiliac;
once cut, would bleed like a tap,
never clot, never stop
until i filled white pages
with blood dried black.

my fingers were tiny warm dancers, Peter,
tiny pink naked ballerinas
who couldn't tell the dance from the dancer
but knew all the classic ballets...

they used to pirouette
across this white stage
in time with the heartbeat of rhythms
like puppets? like marionettes?
(no, i couldn't tell
who held their strings)
and i used to bleed my life's blood for them,
i rejoiced in being part of the dance.

but now they're all dead, Peter,
cold, wrinkled, and dead;
shriveled as prunes but
they were young - they shouldn't have died.

i am dead now, too,
cold, dry, and dead;
a handful of dust in a mountain of pulp.

now i whisper a prayer for all ink bleeders
for this drained fate one day awaits them all.

i used to be a hemophiliac;
once cut, would bleed like a tap...

© Mark E. Dougherty