Raskolnikov

The blood counts.
Not the Time,
Seconds, hours and the like
Don’t matter to blood.
The blood counts the mass,
The spirit and the other primordial ingredients.
The spark and life
It all counts.
Up and up
Outward towards
Systems we know
And those yet unfastened
What betrays
Us most.
Which sense of the skin?
The sight or the seeking
The echoed feeling
Of the creeping
Desire,
Nay need.
Not yet thirst
Which implodes
The strength of spirit
Ay mind,
The constituted whole…