Can't think of bloodletting.
Years ago I read Kafka's Trial
We are on trial.
Guilty of mayhem and killings.
Even as the sun sets
Lord, a prayer holds in clasped hands.
Why must we waver?
Why eternity and womb of deaths
scripted in time's ruthless passage
of bloody history?
What is it in Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria Egypt,
that whores of lust;
machine gun stampede.
Lord, do answer the bellicose question
of anger and angst.
The ravines picture sorrow.
The rivers red with tears.
Blood turns metamorphic.
Tears are frozen in cleavages of gut.
Thinking, feelings are one more prayer to desecrate.