the red sea of rose 

​My blood

is a ribbon tied taut w/ a bow.

It is twisted together (as to not overflow).



The bow, where the ends meet,

(it holds me together)

flows w/ red, rich, gushing flood.


We all need a buoyant flood cycling within us

to run circles and tides ‘round,

in perpetual row

(In a track in the body tied off w/ a bow).


Bright and concealed, like the seeds of a pomegranate;

building-block parts enclosed in a semi-soft box.

Crimson, juicy, messy-muck

Must be dearly held inside.

Encased and closed. To ripen and grow.


I am a box w/ 4 flaps

and a bow.

But when the box doth spring a leak,

the knot unties and the blood doth flow.

We are alone in our boxes,

holding them closed.

We are not yet prepared for the seeds in the souls,

the holes that dwell within the hose.  


When the crimson bow

in the ribbon

unties, or is untied—


Oh, woe.


Woe is me when my string is not unified.

Through the ends of the rope/

the ribbons,

I go.


Mutilation, a kink in a fold.

A tear in a raincoat.

A leak in a boat.


How am I

to ebb and flow

when all I know

is tied in a bow?


Yes, I know to keep it closed:

the circle of movement preserved by a bow.

A beautiful circle lives inside that loop.

Where end meets end and makes a whole,

and I am alone w/ all my constitution held

Tightly in a blood-flow.


The thing

that no one

No one knows

Is that, in blood,

my words are closed:

Incubating in a tourniqueted hose.

Held neatly, tightly,

In the red sea of rose.



copyright: C. Ward 2016


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