Flow, blood; you are not me
but I have known your intercourse
since the crimson dawn of infancy
and felt your churning force.
Rest, heart; prepare anew
for I will vein a richer flood
of this eddying life and pressure through
my system bolder blood.
Blood is strength but blood turns sour
wrecks the font and wilts the flower;
only baptized blood has power.
With this blood I signify
fresh life to sanctify
each remaining pulsing hour.
Rise, soul; a new sun dawns
and childhood beckons ever when
in thy freshened frame an impulse fawns
on life come back again.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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