Pure Blud Poem by Martin Byrne

Blood so pure
No disease without cure
Of flesh and molecules
A cancers great end
Except the disease of
A heart you bend

The very face of
Veins and ventricles alike
But heaveir and harder
It'll rest easy that night

The four chambered spirit
Of dancing doves and floating flirts
Had yet to find safety
Buried beneath the eight pronged shirt

this daggers' disease goes
beyond colors and spices
It clogs up your arteries
With multi-emotional crisis

It'll rip
And I'll laugh
Without future
But with grass