day 319

to cure,
precious wounds, those no longer pure
but sunken to the deep allure
and marked forever as a mysterious curve

or curve s
pressing against some unknown nerve
paralysed with blood swerve d
past redemption, past the flow of those reserve ed

kept for patient dripping but soft dew in deed
indeed, the flow won't stop - so we weep
reverse our order of living and inside of us, deep
blood, emptied,
lovers pushed to the brink of overflowing haemorrhage
no band, no tape, no stitch, no band, no drape, no leech, could clean this mess
without return, departs in the dripping fashion, to flow out of us in passionate streams
to the end of words, and to the beginning of a requiem, we sing to our own flood
left as only a stain, a dried up mark of now less than precious wounds
vapour
with a stench that lingers
just for a while
a while,
a curious case of a while.