The relationship of cause and effect
The principle that nothing can happen without being caused
There was blood seeping
Tracing lines along the grains in the wood
And marking out the cracks in the floorboards.
Blood spewing out of his half-open mouth
And his bleeding nose.
His eyes were half-closed.
Half-open.
Staring aimlessly,
Trying to make meaning out of the rust patterns drawn into the bottom of the refrigerator door.
Trying in vain to substantiate life
And place pins, and hold it down,
And dissect its viscera
As he lay, dissected himself,
In a pool of blood.
His blood.
The blood of the cause.
The high-octane fuel that once charged
That turbocharged mind of his
Which identified, improvised, illustrated, illuminated.
No doubt he started it.
His mind was the manifesto,
And here lay, bread and wine,
And a thousand delusions which escaped the confining quotations
And puzzling citations within that psychical text.
Now with the knife staved deep in his chest,
It still was not easy.
Cutting a shredded line through his heart and his left lung.
Blood oozed out.
Filling the chest cavity.
Pulmonary oedema.
His lungs compressed, filling up with blood themselves.
As he choked on the high-octane fuel
That kept spilling though his breath now.
The blood wrote histories on the ground.
Stories he meant to achieve.
Walk in front of them, at the head of the procession.
His chest bared open to bullets
And cannon-fire.
Wrote tales of forgotten beds
And forsaken love.
The story of a cause
And how it made sense of the world to him.
How he tried to make them see it.
All they heard was a mad man's ravings.
All they saw was a path paved to their grave.
The knife plunged into his heart.
Soft and warm; and red with blood.
