Monday, July 14, 2008
I blame myself. I hold my heart in my hands, dripping and oozing its crimson passion. And yet you let the soil soak it; oh, how hungrily does the dirt devour my reds. My mangled throat of cries and pleas were passage to my heart, from which I stole it for you. And yet how you leave it to dry; oh, how unforgiving is the heat that crusts my clots.So now the wounds have somewhat healed and congealed itself into scars, would that cover be enough? The forward road winds and down the trail it turns off into the unknown. Why won't you hold my hand in yours now? Sooner that road is trodden, for either knows it is without the other that would be less of a journey, the better for both. Yet for now, we must walk; oh, yes, walk beside each other and let the wounds drip freely - for it is time and forwards that we must go. We will go.