Blood and Ink...

He bled onto every page
that he ever wrote
or at least that I've ever read
His writing can only be mistaken
for ink
because of how dark it appears

I scan over the words
and I see the same dark blood
on those pages
that's in my own
 bloodshot eyes
 and on the hands
 of many villains

I start to bleed
onto a page of my own
and I see some of the
same marks
in what I leave down
as he left long ago

These aren't the marks
he left on me
These are the marks
this world leaves
on everyone
that doesn't hide
in the shadows of some
lifeless ink

His blood wasn't
what made his words
The words were in his blood
all along
His blood just ran true
onto every page

As I sit behind these keys
bleeding on and on
about all these bloody things
that death collects or has collected
I wonder how dark
death might appear
next to all these marks

and I imagine Hank laughing
at the reaper in his cloak
Laughing at his bloodless bones
Laughing at how he hides under
that faded black rag
Laughing at the lack of darkness
in that bloodless realm
the dead are escorted into
And I imagine that skull of a face
turning bright red
 as Hank keeps laughing right in there
mocking every clattering step
while he taunts those bones
 calling them a lost tour guide
 and telling them where to go

I fill my blood with laughter
as I imagine these dark things
and it keeps leaking out
like a menstrual tide
against the tampon shores
of another soiled page