Saturday, October 29, 2016

Drunk Nights: A Poem

I'm bleeding and I don't care.

This  rivulet of blood stretches down my face,
across my skin and shows something
I can't quite grasp
in it's own way of silent steady flow.
I want to disturb it.
Disturb the way it stretches down
the impossible length of nose to lip.
Even now a finger reaches up and touches,
with the lightest of intentions,
the red silk.
Grooves come away doused,
while the river flows on.
It flows on.

I feel nothing
but the cold of air on white blood cells.
Are they protecting me, do you think?
Are they doing the job for which they were so lovingly created?
That's what the world would have me think.
These small creatures of fire and air
were the works of something greater than I.

It makes me laugh
because we are all creatures of random thought
and coincidence.
Some wish we were more,
but that's all we have. 
The most bizarre of happenstance
is what binds us together.
We're all just large bits of smaller matter,
joined together in a torrent of need and
bizarre gratification of our desire to mean something.

But it's possible, isn't it?
to mean something
without being created to do so.
I can give myself a definition
that defies all logic and reason.
Others disregard,
but I can fight on with my words and thoughts.
So determined to carve a real semblance of life
out of this haze of chemical reactions.
We find order in the meaningless and meaning in the ordinary. 
Meaning in the ordinary. 

Meaning in our blood.