The Color of Blood.

my desk drives
me to work;

puts me inside
this career; where I

drown in the
thinnest of airs
around me;

in the space
between my eyes,

rests my
laptop screen

giving me this dream-less
sleep; and this
nightmare workload

heavy as the
slenderness of breath

above me;
it weights down;

I tumble with it;
roll into mirror mazes

for me to see
this un-distorted view
of what I will become;

... / if change doesn’t occur.

where are clogged
veins when we need them?

elevated blood

and the as-seen-in-an-awakening
moisturizing cream

that add the anemic coating to
make the truest color of blood

so easily unavoidable;

no matter which god you serve,
which causes you fight;

or (as evidenced in this case)
which career you choose.

as this wealth of knowledge
of the poorest of people

and this rattling of shackles
capturing the progress of people

I know and hear.

while my pay stubs drive
me to work;

carpool with my mortgage,
debts, and leisure

putting me inside
this thing here; which has

something they called a career
in it; where I’ll drown

through my punctured
skin until I finally

bleed back to life

/ when change does occur.

Mark Anthony Thomas
Copyright © 2006