Blood are tender,
though the fangs of thorns are made of stainless steel.
I am lonely
I am so lonely
I hoped this torn that I born with within me
would never last and pass my bloom.
Now I know the edges of my wound would never connect
like the indexes on Sistine Chapel ceiling.
I know rains would never sew the cracks of these parched clays
until I die.
Blood are tender,
though the fangs of thorns are made of stainless steel.
And wound get festered
turns into 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
Blood are tender,
though the fangs of thorns are made of stainless steel.
There is no substance
left to materialize
between the yearning and pleading edges of these hurt.
Though the more this wound opens
the more we patch the gap of separation
the more we get near each other
the more we seal and heal
the wound of this world.
Blood are tender,
though the fangs of thorns are made of stainless steel.
