The smell is calming.
Dried, red-rose crusted at the tips.
Iron mixed with flesh, salt, and aliveness.
It splatters nicely on the walls and my being.
From tiny slips, I feel the boldness of them.
Powerful as an opaque gem I call the moon.
With the moon, I can hear the demons in rest.
Knowing that is for the best, as an acid test.
The damn and innocence must share.
They know when the tools come and play, I won't care.
Many others know and fear.
Squee the most, for there must be no repeats.
He and other kids must know everything to be like sweets.
Simple and easy to understand.
For me, too late.
Johnny C. died with his family.
By God's fucking hand with no humanity.
Blood then was cold.
Blood now is warm.
Calming, sweet, bold, briny, smooth, and spirited.
Not what I am now, but wanting to be and let the small ones too.
When that happens, I'll be flying alongside the moon and stars.
Far the demons, the voices, dwelling friends, and brainless adults.
A chance to be free, long but there.
Little Johnny can't wait.
While mad Johnny works to the bare bone to do so.
Waiting won't be long.
It's like jumping.
Off a cliff . . .