The Drinker

A poem about a drinker and his drink of choice.

The blood is thick,
flowing in waves,
following souls,
to their graves.

The blood flows deep,
the blood flows pure,
the blood flows red,
as a sign of the dead.

The drinker sighs,
and licks his lips,
he has drunk,
much more than sips.

He laps the blood,
from the cold dead,
and with his drink,
he adorns their head.

Decorating in blood still warm,
he decorates the dead's pale form.

He is alive,
he is dead,
he is The Drinker,
as I have said.