by invisible fingers;
pen to white sheets,
the loincloth bears witness to the bleeding
ever present ever after.
No hearts are crimson red
when the palms spread out,
and the piercings disappear like red roses,
soft and dry kisses
that never pressed us
prayer by silent prayer.
No hearts are fools,
knowing fools.
And because of that,
words.
living, perpetual, words
red letters on the finite book
behind a cover of spirit fibres.
No hearts are needed.
Human hearts come to a stop.
And because of that.
we can love.
without hearts.
with Him.
I is too human.
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