Blood drops from the nick, splatters down to
bowl and diffuses throughout water. While in
the next room others remain sleeping, unable
to stave off slumber, knowing as they do, that blood
will soon flow from blade, ear or pore. Unlikely,
from preparation. But what do they know? Even for God
this is a first. There is perfection in blood no matter
how it is shed or diluted. This day will be
unlike others – no birth will follow. As, this time,
it is finished. Even the moon is blood, rising from horizon,
mathematically perfect in its rotation, hidden from
the sun yet revealed in glory from which they soon flee.
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