Floods

Waist deep in the strengthening waters,      
skimming my hands across its surface.      
I disperse its reflections        
of the moon,      
of the clouds      
of what I barely recognize as my face.    
   
Metal sheeting, broken brick and brimstone    
hurtling through, colliding in between  
breaking apart in its multiple pieces    
jagged edge drawing blood upon a cut  
and the waters have their first taste  
the waters shudder, drawing its breath  
in anticipation of the kill.     
       
Bodies float face down, their throats slit      
and their hands and legs torn in tatters.   
Their blood pools between them,    
their life soaked into the riverbed    
their toxins now within these waters    
taken by the tide, by its rise I am engulfed.  
 
Imagination? Didn't I hear the waters mock?      
       
It is their very blood diluting these waters      
reflecting a once pale moon,      
now distinctively blood-red and burdened  
permanently bound to illuminating  
the blood-stricken waters.      
I picture a crumbling moon,  
a chaotic moon, left in its fragments.  
 
The waters rage further, gathering an arsenal.  
I cannot overcome this.   
       
The moonlight and its radiance illuminates        
my bloodied eyes and face        
the clouds have parted      
sparsely enough so, before they give in again.      
I can feed from the moon      
and I can feed into the soul.  
 
The Bodies have floated before me,  
and I can see their faces for the first time  
and they're smiling,  
and they're ascending.
 
If only I could let go.