The Most Bled Wound

Yearnful heart, with sickness amassed,
I am the beggar, of all desires,
So that I may lift, the veil,
That shrouds, your shoulders.

I see Heaven, placed upon, your mantle,
I see Hell, swirling, in your bosom,
I see breasts, that swell, like beaten limbs,
I see, that compassion, has died.

A tear falls, from my eye, and to my foot,
Where lays, a stem, from some forsaken bough.
A sigh, is released, from my heavy chest,
To meet, with the coldest winter air.
And here is my demise, in seeing your shame,
Raving in the darkness, under your blame.

I know my heart, is cold,
It is ivory, and holds, no red,
The most bled wound, is yours,
That is a heart, squeezed of life.

I was cruel, and you remain, to see,
To see, the guilt, I harbor,
To see, the flame, of sickness,
A fever, I aim to end.

It is a fever, I aim, to make cold,
Cold in the tide, of my own blood,
When my hands, come, to know mercy.

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