Where Is Your Blood?

Where is your blood, I ask
Where does it belong?
If it spills, does it consecrate
Or was it desecrated?
Where is it then, and where
Does it belong?
Why does yours flow when
The rest of the world is still?
So then, where, I ask
And where does it belong?

Who among us knows
The fountainhead of their
Primal river,
How many can count the drops
That fell scattered within the bones
Of yesterday, driving forward till today
With rains, driven drops of rain,
With reins, driven by bloody reins
Reigning sovereign over rivers
Running toward tomorrow.

What is this blood that spills, that flows
And oozes and trickles and clots,
Dries and stains hands and sandy lands,
That boils and sinks and explodes upon rising?
Is yours the blood that slips away
As casually as war,
Is yours the blood that fell on deaf ears
When prostrate before your bloody god?
Is yours the blood that was infected
By a careless evening,
Is yours the blood that is cursed
As it pulls the moon from your guts?
Is yours the blood that never satisfies
The lives of the stock,
Is yours the blood of livestock
Barely alive yet bleeding in buckets?

Or is yours the blood that holds the memories
Of why blood relates us all: sacred
Consecrated
Sacrificed

So then, I must ask,
Where does yours belong?