By LaKrista Vantrece
The walls are bleeding.
I sit here and watch
as the streams of red
roll down from the ceiling
thick and slow.
It mingles with memories
of dreary days disguised by
familiar faces flashing
teeth.
I’ve no idea
where it came from
or where it is going
but it’s stained my carpet.
I imagine
it continues through the floor
seeping into the earth
into the roots of the tree
that grows just beyond
my window.
the leaves have begun
to glow crimson
they fall, fluttering to the frozen grass
where they glisten in the sun
until they’re crushed
beneath a wide black boot
I look back to
the once white walls
to see the blood has
begun to flow
in reverse.
it slides up the smooth surface
much faster than before
until but one drop remains
smeared across the vacant eyes
of the boy who’s gone
to war.
Clamor 