Red Creation

November 11, 2012
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A bead of blood like a small balloon
Swells from the tiny cut
Slides in a gentle rivulet
Down the wrist and around
To drip, drip, drip
On the cool paper.

Three drops grouped
Sitting red on palest yellow
Secretly soaking, staining
Slowly becoming a mere smudge
of triplet circles, mingled.

One pain, three drops, one smudge
A trinity.
Reminding like a poppy.
The smudges of other generations
On the pages of history.
The bloody trinities in fields
And fields, and oceans

And oceans of red
Dropping from heaven
To carpet our lives
As we walk over the lives
That others gave up
In their struggle
To fill our future lives
With tiny bubbles of blood
Like balloons
On paper

My blood is in this poem.
Their blood is in me.