Of The Blood

it is of the blood,
that we carry, that we turn,
that we walk...
the blood that feels,
and touches,
the raw and the forbidden.
it is of the bood,
that we breathe, that we sweat,
that we join,
in moments of passion,
great and small,
in the simple and mundane.
it is of the blood,
that we drink, that we pray,
that we wear...
on lips parched and blistered,
smeared over the doorway...
the blood that takes back,
that seizes the moment
in the undressing of the heart!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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