The term. Oesophageal Varices.
Blood flows, it fills your lungs and oozes,
blacklashed bruises crimson tears closed-eyes
hemmed in by black-gut twist. I hear your call.
It’s time to take your leave, death’s wanton whore
demands the living line to still, to view
her neon underscore, the beep your
overture, your wordless note. I hear your call.
You leave me feathers in your silent wake,
the first I found stuck to my sole, and knew
you’d come to me in dreams, and leave an ache,
my Ariel, and still, I hear your call.
Somehow love missed you, held you in it’s thrall,
and how it missed… yet still, I hear your call.