Blood on the Cotton

A sad soot always splashed on the face, and

Everyday we were a different a color,

Dusty grey to coal black, or a chalky white,

No matter because,

Our masters whippings, it carried a tune,

And all the others

Caught wind of the serenading leather sickle,

We were calling, and we are still calling out

To someone, to anyone

To a dumb god, or a merciful reaper,

The cotton has hardened my hands,

Broken my soles, stiffened my bed

But it hasn't softened my pillow

It hasn't softened the blows,

It hasn't healed my wounds,

But it stood there on its stem

High and over me, looking down on me,

The cotton I picked out just watched me bleed

And the cotton ball made in my hand

Sucked my blood dry, like a vampire