Bleeding Soul

I feel the blood of my soul lazily forming rivulets and slipping away....
and I watch and feel this, and I cannot do anything but
watch and feel,
in slow horror,
as I watch myself dying.
And I remember a mountaintop,
upon which I stood once,
bleeding my soul away in gushes,
until this blood covered the earth,
and lapped at my feet in oceans...
I have not been there for a long, long time.
But I cannot remember how I stopped the bleeding,
how I quenched the flow.
So now I sit here,
dumbfounded,
as I watch myself go.

Watching you watch me,
this stupid look upon my face...
helpless to help me,
not knowing any more what to do
than I do,
bleeding to death, with undying breath.

The foolishness of dying is upon me.
I see it's silliness as it passes me by,
uninterested in my begging invitation.
I cannot die, I, the fool who forgets...
who thinks it matters,
who suffers with this wound.
This wound which does not matter except to me,
the only one who knows it.

The longer dead and undying live ones,
they wander past, wondering
why I do not slough off the pain
why I do not forget my flesh,
why I let this minor thing take me.
They have forgotten their own transitions.

But I am not the long dead,
and not yet long the undying;
I have not yet come to understand this torment,
to know it and accept it,
and forget it
in a haze of endless days gone by.

So I pause to wonder at myself,
why I am undying,
and I realize the pain of these souls
which they do not any longer even know themselves.
They have become accustomed;
it is their eternal fate.

I await the passing of my flesh,
going about the fleshly life yet,
until I too become
long an undying live one.

Rip! Rip and tear, my love,
drive the spear into me yet again.
Pull it out, and plant it,
Make mush of my flesh, mince my soul.
The pain is not different,
but it is somewhat unexpected...
onward, to your goal.

What would I not give of myself
just to be normal.
There is such bliss in
averageness and ignorance.

And now I smell the blood
I had almost forgotten about.
It distracts me from the sensation.
The lovingly sensuous scent that caresses my nostrils
reminding me,
whispering how it has missed me,
asking if I have missed it too.
I have to nod that I have.
And it reminds me of a field of daffodils,
upon which my once soul bled
and turned all red
the yellow.

Drifting, lost in memories,
pleasant only because I feel less alone,
if only because I, once,
many times and ago,
have been here before.