This whole piece is a Zinger! ::bows deeply::

For me in my relationship with poetry, I prefer to talk of the way in which a piece becomes mine as the viewer and not of the writer and their relationship to the words:

"Art is just an imitation of an imitation,
the soul mining the void."

This string of words has hung round my neck and that is what great poetry does, its familiar, a taste you cannot quite describe, yet, there it is from another soul somewhere in the world. Somewhere the Altar of love, like so many has been quenched with the blood of lovers, dried over once in bloom flowers, hardened, and then drilled and strung into a strand to be worn, or worshiped, or reviled.

Dried blood is brown, not red.

Bravo!