Sword
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love …
how sacred
and sharp its blade -
brutal and bloody,
the jagged edge that binds
my heart to hers …
but why, if it exacts so
deep a wound?
why reveal a wonder,
if it bears such horrid cost?
why let the parched drink,
if for thirst’s sake alone?
just as eager, the
thrums of an empty heart …
just as sure, it’s utility,
and it has no precious blood to let -
no coursing to stain flesh,
or weaken marrow …
it’s joys are but a dream,
not the nightmares
that now mock my soul,
and haunt …
her passing.
( Digital artwork by Ian Vicknair )
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2022
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