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I bleed -
each time I hold a pen
or type a key,
my veins weep with the
language of
my soul …
it is not a
need I have, to write -
it is the breath that inhabits me,
the marrow of my bones,
and the ember of
my passions …
it is not who
I am, but WHAT I am -
an implement for something
FAR more grand than
I could ever be -
something exceedingly more wondrous
than this reckless,
foolhardy flesh …
and yet …
how blessed am I
to leave such crimson stains
upon the cloak of time, passing,
and the hearts …
of men?
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2022
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