top of page

     By Benjamin Wilson

  • Instagram
  • Facebook
  • Twitter

A drop of blood falls from my nose.
A trickle,
Then a river rushing down, painting my palms red.
I stare, do not stop it,
I just watch my life fade from vibrant to black.
Constantly attempting to hold on to my strength, will, and sanity
What hope did that dam of twigs have of holding.
The pounding pumps of the heart had to release.
The rising flood is always too much for the vessels.
My Spirit is cleansed by Blood.
Once the tide is stemmed I wash away the dry, caked residue.
Become renewed in my endeavors,
But that dam will bulge and break again,
What hope could it ever have in holding.

bottom of page