The Petrichor Gazette
What bloody man is that?,
​
What bloody man is that?
Crown that shined so bright
even Scotland couldn’t see
Dulled by the a pool of red
Smothered on his chest, his head
his legs, his arms
For heaven’s sake!
It is on my chest, my head
my legs, my hands
Like the church’s stained glass
whilst the bells sing death,
rise the other death knells
whilst thunder strikes overhead,
trees fall to their knees
whilst the red grows thicker,
daggers inch towards me
inch by inch
Take it, you coward!
That is your crown!
That is your pride!
Allow the dear devils to purr,
serpents to hiss in dusk,
to coo and woo
Because you are a man;
the reign of bloody galore!
A tale told by an idiot
That is life, is it not?
They are all idiots
Living like ants
Small and squashed
Signifying nothing
Yet, why is it his blood,
no, their blood,
rubbing against my skin–
tainted with their sorrow;
their wrath
I feel it in my veins
How unfortunate,
these bloody veins!
A testament that I am alive
I am human,
I am a man but,
What bloody man is that?