by Mark Davis
Mine is the same as yours,
Still crimson behind closed doors.
Rich in character and vitality,
while different in resolve and spirituality.
Mine clots to others without shame, cherished identities if only in name,
with divergent orientation it parts
to seek safe passage by way of the heart.
Yours is an atonement or a resurrection
that values and seeks some self-preservation. A vessel deliberate in its divisiveness,
choked by its blind single-mindedness.
Yours is a dogma and a norm,
a dangerous and unnatural storm.
The benevolent deception that cannot recede, The many who continue to live what they believe.
And so on 6/12 between 12-6,
Our bloods mix.
Everyone feels this heightened Pulse and recognizes which colors are false.
On many hands and feet,
On floors covered in sheets.
The blood dries to the color of black, Absorbing the colors it now retracts.
As others cling to their life,
I am cut by a new knife.
My blood is not good enough to give, a consequence of the way I live.
So my blood will not be used for repair,
and sadly cannot heal those in despair.
These wounds where pride was once united, Again reveal how our colors are divided.