Blood Poem by Kevin Maroney

The blood boils beneath the skin,
once round it comes up, beating the surface again,
till out of the dark and into the light,
it roars with a fury, burning brightly in the night.

Red and viscous, it rolls along,
till the fuse booms a hot song,
a lovely tale of rage and lore,
spilled on the blood-spattered padded floor,

Stories run deep throughout this land,
one's of crying, another's of sand,
some can feel without the touch,
and others can only succumb to madness's rush.

The vampire sucks till the rivers run dry,
but in the air the currents still lie,
and within him they course without end,
and in the night have their revenge,

why the vampire saw it not,
burning the candles of the victims he sought,
till like a wick with too much flame,
they were consumed to the ground,
with little to no aim.

In the end blood does not lie,
it can splatter to the ground or return, roaring, to the sky.