The Dust

I left clouds of drying blood upon your wrinkled bedsheets.

They took the dullest bones to keep,

a body rendered incomplete.

-

The wind would whistle wickedness,

hollow bodies freeze,

admit defeat,

the entire world a desert,

punctuated by raging, aching seas.

-

We prayed desperately to a multitude of Gods,

none of which heard our needs,

an extra effort, then,

removing dirt from bruising knees.

-

The major difference was seen

in the substances we’d bleed.

On penetration, they would shed oil and feel free,

leave the ashes of bodies behind,

it’s a killing spree,

a million memories lying still,

scattered on the path.

-

The blood which we’d leave was as red

as the fires they’d squeeze from triggers,

military attacks, uniformed Promethea.

Four million USD hovering

over some mud huts.

-

We’d run in search of safety,

too aware that there’s no saving us.

Our bodies now flow freely

in the piercing gusts of wind.

A potent mix, rough on the lungs.

-

The blood I left with you slowly evaporated,

fading into the landscapes,

broken bones left in the dust.

-

Contorting torsos, coughed expressions of disgust,

our fragmented remnants of a species.

Rotting metals,

glowing rust.

-

A lying smile,

a quietly

deceptive trust.

-

A bloodied body left

behind at a drug bust.

-

Someday, they may study us

and be revolted by their findings

burying them by

the skeletons we left.