Aren't All Our Words Like Threadbare Cloth? Poem by Mark Heathcote

What can infringe upon this will to live?
Our desire to spill one last drop of blood
Nothing given is enough, so I strive
To give much more than, what's adjudged.

I ink my heart like a bleeding stone
Every tarred feather is plucked clean
Given pestle & mortar; ground to the bone
The dust I leave you I grant is serene.

But if it isn't and it's still stained red
Know that I've given all that I had.
And nothing was done willingly misled
Aren't all our words like tartan cloths plaid?