I am lonely
I am so lonely
I hoped this torn that I born with, within me
would last and pass my bloom,
the edges of wound never connect
like the Michelangelo's indexes,
until I die.
Blood are tender,
though the fangs of thorns are from stainless steel.
And wound get festered
turns to gangrene.
Now
there are no fangs
only the current,
a creek that wounds this valley
festered wound that carves ravines
to valleys and abbeys.
There is no bridge that could stitch this wound of us
back together
There is no substance
left to materialize
between the entreaty edges of these hurt.
Though the more this wound opens
the more we get near each other
the more we seal and heal
the wound of this world.
