The blood of a hundred,
No more than a drop.
As the streets become flooded,
The earth itself rocks.
Trying to lift the geas,
Watching through a thick haze.
Soaring, the crow flies,
Its' wings ablaze.
If I find naught,
But a silver thread,
I have been taught,
That I can be bled.
Savouring the experience.
Eryk York