Blood Circle

In your

Feral grief

Wild, you gnaw

Off your own

And the limbs of others.

Small limbs.

Childs' limbs.

Small hearts.

Your own blood.


Casualties

Of your suffering.

Of your unexamined

History,

Of your untamed

Reactivity.


Blinded by rage,

Wounds—

Old and new—and

Unacknowledged

Expectation, your

Self righteousness, your

Victimhood forms

A blood circle.

Anything in reach

Of the blade

Of your pain

Risks laceration.

But in reliving the past

In the present

You cannot see

Crimson footprints

Haunting your steps.

Cannot see that the

Unwillingness to look

Heralds your possession.

I watch as

Hafiz’s Mirror does:

Present

Reflecting

Abiding

Loving.

I pray.

I pray for

Your wakefulness

Lest the burden of wreckage

Left in your wake

Be too much

For you to bear.

Or lest the truths

Of these moments also

Go unseen

Unacknowledged.

Their wisdom

Squandered

Allowing the cycle of

Pain to continue


In the three-limbed

And wounded-hearted.