You speak as if
the blood belongs to words
as if 'Good" is a blade
and 'Light" is a verdict.

I only laughed
at how easily tongues agree
to carry fire
while calling it clarity.

But tell me:
who taught you
that naming a wound
is the same as causing it?

Civil hands may tremble
and still hold knives
or bread,
depending on who's telling.

And if savagery lives within us,
why is it always summoned
only when history
needs a villain?

Still - I feel it:
blood, pressure beneath meaning,
as if every sentence has arteries
pushing against its own skin
- direct from heart.

Something alive
refusing to stay abstract,
beating against the grammar
we use to contain it...

Visceral!

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Sarapin, in the year 1003 AF.