A story not of life and death but of death and life.
Venae Fractae Fati
The Broken Veins of Fate
A trilogy of poems that begins at the end,
and journeys through the process of life—
and what we choose to do with it.
Do we walk the path flattened by our ancestors?
One they may have prepared with care…
or left polluted and rotting?
Are we the way we are because of what they taught us—
or because of how they learned?
The following three pieces view the gift and the burden of life from not only different eyes but also of different times.
Life Blood from Slaughter
The tip of the spear.
The moment the blood spills into the mouth of a hungry Earth.
A life lived in the name of love, suspended before eyes both loving and hating.
Tears of hope, love, and grief.
Roars of satisfaction and triumph.
The Spear of Destiny rips into the heart—
flesh clings to the cold steel.
I am the blood dripping to the soil below.
Fleeing the body newly devoid.
Dry, cracked earth—
moistened by spilling evil.
Mending wounds of neglect.
Hate and fear welcomed.
Drops spread, dissipating.
Decay.
Roots sink their teeth.
Death digesting into life.
Nourishment.
New love feeds from what was.
Springing forth, thorns protecting.
Generation benefits from ancestors’ love.
Lesson past learned, results freely gained.
Sprouts—pure, untainted—need not know how or why.
Blossoms rise where I once fell.
A trade well made—my life given.
Love, life, wisdom, pass down.
Blood for blood, and love for life.
Inheritance: Burden and Gift
Standing firm in the soil where roots plant and branches reach.
Recognizing the blessing and the curse bestowed by life.
A gift in blood.
Inheritance.
Echoes as guides.
Instinct.
Marrow—cracked past reinforces mine.
Evolution.
Past remedies ease new trauma.
Adaptation.
Yet, here I stand.
Isolation.
Wanting more.
Ambition.
Wondering what and how.
Confusion.
Striving onward.
Determination.
Finding mine.
Creation.
Passing down.
Inheritance.
III. Via Negata
The Path Not Taken
The road we choose—
not the one we’re given.
Vows unsworn.
Expectations unmet.
Shoes unfilled.
The road forks.
One path firm—
with prints to follow in blood.
An empty hand out.
The other harsh—
unknown, mine to forge.
Lineage redefined.
Ancestors' curses broken.
Shards beneath my feet.
Sharpening my stride.
Trudging my way.
My prints shallow—
yet purposeful.
No end in sight—
but sure to come.
With that, the trilogy is complete.
Thank you, dear reader, for walking this path with me.
May your choices take you where you wish to go.
Good Fortune to You,
About the Creator
Tales from a Madman
.. the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the Prince's indefinite decorum.
The Masque of the Red Death
Edgar Allan Poe
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