Halls of the Dark Muse

Blood Bonds

I am all roots
(dirty fingers)
which dig into the Earth
{reverberating}
and I feel fingers
sunk into flesh
while watching for founts of blood,
(little pin pricks)
succumbed to the chocking vine
which climbs upon my walls,
but one becomes a fixture-
within time
hold-fast
watching the parched sun
as shadows pass
waiting for rain that evaporates,
sticky tears which solidifies,
(honey-gold puss)
entombed just enough
to touch the depths below
while till lingering
like a fresh wound exposed
to open air,
wanting to penetrate further still
if the weight of the Earth
cannot be broken free,
dirt tumbling down slopes
it will cave upon itself
(a single scar to remain)
if the roots were not so much
entangled in skin and bone.