Blood Spatter (Prose Poetry)

There's something endlessly fascinating about how those familiar specks of red shoot across the sky, like the shooting stars that speeds past the eyes of an innocent child. We know it to be immoral -- sinister, perverse pleasure in taking something's purity, then tainting it with the dry, croaked laughs of the deranged and blinding it in liquid fear.

Like the climax of an orgasm, all of the pent up energy of a bullet or blade pushes itself further and further into the body, until the inevitable release from the confines of its excruciating cell. From there, the screams subside into whimpers, and then to breaths indistinguishable from the chilly winds breezing past the reaper's wretched face. And so, the most ancient form of street art is completed, as the stuff rivers down a soot-caked sidewalk, almost as though it were mournful tears.