There’s a famous way to recreate,
What has always deprived my soul,
Of the memory that sits
On the crown of thorns above my brow,
It drips smallest droplets,
Of vermilion, to my tongue.
What do I taste?
I taste a love so sweet, and still, so bitter,
I taste my failure raising from a daunting Hell,
And I feel my beloved’s breath like a cooling wind,
To calm this roaring pain.