the wound that bleeds is neither from a knife that cuts the skin,

nor the rock that bruises it blue

it comes from a force that grips the heart;

which can be an unwanted vision, or a lonely sight

or the scent of an impending end to a precious time,

it can be the final touch from a fading love,

or from a loved one, a lack thereof. it can be the edges of sharpened words,

floating heavily and heard over and over again

the most tragic? it can spring from the savor of death.

Death that hides…

in the corruption of corporeal physique,

in the staining of pure thoughts,

in the breaking of one’s heart

but the wound that bleeds comes from nothing of those…

for death’s flavor can be found just a little under the linen of life.

Death is…

the body of someone that does no good,

the mind that does not think for the better, and

the heart that remains outside the circle of love

Death is the life that refuses to live

But still…

the wound that bleeds can be healed,

not by compelling the senses to stop from understanding

but by hands put together for a prayer of hope,

by the knees that would kneel for the passion of redemption,

and the eyes that would cry the tears of Faith.