Bleeding Lips Poem by Peggy Pollock

A sudden distaste for my own music
Calls for a silent torture
And I wonder
At my own misfortune
Deeper into thought
How if something's perfect, unbroken
Can anyone, or thing, get in?
And I bite my lip ‘til it bleeds.
With bleeding lips I press a kiss unto a lidded vase.
And watch as blood trickles down the breast and down the vases thigh
And turns to mud, to dust, leaving nothing but a trail of rust
And I cry.
For the blood we spilt
Let flowers wilt
And soon they come to die