Blood Red – Poetry

Blood Red

By J. A. Weymouth


The murmur is red.

Drowning red.

The deep crimson of sour instinct –

Pursing those lips.

Pulsating blood in the current of life.


Your life is drowning.

You look at two faces and see one paler than the other.



What is it you see?

Nothing but the basic, all naturel.


You pick up the cloth

it is red

made of silk

but you do not use it

because you are scared of the dirtied eye

scared to hide it behind the silk cloth.


Tolerant hands tremble

reaching out.


The blood is red.

All bodied blood.


There is nothing frightening behind skin.

All Eyes – Poetry


All Eyes

By J. A. Weymouth


All eyes are broken glass,

Fractured away from a whole,

Expression imprinted loss,

Nothingness – a black hole.


Tears are but a ripple,

Wavering across that loner pond,

Mirroring life as nothing but a cripple,

Despair dares not respond.


Loss breeds the need,

The need to see greater impressions,

Of souls born to be greedy,

For the better to question.


Left to shudder the anticipation,

Of crumbling sorrow,

Leaves us with the sensation

Of nothing.  Nothing for tomorrow.