Lost Soul Poem by L.T Sanders

The blood hits the floor.
It drops from the womb.
In a tight stuffy room is where I lay down and except my doom.
I tightly grip a bottle of vodka.
Half has been consumed.
The window is cracked and I’m in a perfect position to see the moon.
Literally glazing into space as I think about the marks on the tomb.
As the blood flows deep I hold on to the fact that I’ll know the answer to all my questions real soon.
At least that’s what I assume because even though the dates August 10th.
The body’s been sitting in this room since June.