Landscape of Blood
Nikki Anne Schmutz

Mangled flesh, landscapes of blood
painted by the unknowing, would
be ripped and torn alongside the road
traveled by the wounded soul.

The fiercest storm brews in the sky
as the stealthy birds of prey fly;
striking with the bolts of lightning
clutching claws, their call; frightening.

There are drops of red, instead of rain
falling from the heavenly veins;
pooling crimson within the cracks
sinking down, no chance to refract

upon the street between the living and the dead;
where empty souls look to be fed.
Pools of water turned to wine,
on which the evil spirits dine.

It is the blood of those who came before;
those who could not settle the score,
those who died at the hand of rage,
those who stood upon the stage

of life, and were paraded about
stripped and shown to the world without
a morsel of pride, only humility
to be shown, and to finally leave.

Leave their body empty and cold,
only to find their soul was sold.
Sold to the highest bidder, for merely a cent
to the murderer of the lost and of the innocent.

ÿþ:Œµµç€