Rejected Blood From Dejected Donors

It's the pressure of perfection
That synthesizes the convection,
And the red phone rings
And sings for connection.
But then begs for direction.
Yet the hand of the master
Stays still,
No affection.
With one hand on his desk
And the other underneath,
He reaches to pull the plug.
And all remains quiet on the western front.
He only enjoys that setting sun
To watch arise another one.
And his daughter laid,
Confused with love,
He cradled to sleep with printless gloves.
And there was hush from fingers and lungs
As they both were emptied in unison,
And one was fighting.
And what was fought.
But here, he is god
And he's not saying, "Stop."