The high red blood cell count
tipped them off as it was detected
pulsing through his veins;
a thunderous fibrillation.
Like a thousand messages dispatched
to his outer extremities, all the charm
and amenities of life seem wasted
like a dish of soup tasted and left uneaten.
Spirit beaten and spitting blood,
the front dressing, crimson soaked,
spoke of his sadly grave condition.
© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013
Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #107
THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET'S HEART 