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December 3, 2010
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Arjintiu
Flesh rebels against flesh.
Pulsing, throbbing, giving way
To the soul escape.

Red everywhere—covering the wound—
The new scar. Slightly nauseating
To see your inner self.

More importantly, the pain is sharp.
Sudden as it receds, it begins
Anew. Waves, new waves, of fear.

Waves washing over, like the shore
Being washed over, carved
Away by the ocean.

Every new fear takes away something
From the soul, only later being
Brought back.

Though sometimes the feeling is
Refreshing, it is always
Reminiscent of past mistakes.

What, if anything, does it
Accomplish? The person grows
Smaller in hope,
Larger in despair. Then death, suddenly,
Subtly, invites the cold wind.

Oh, how I miss the blood,
The wound! Oh, how I miss
My soul, breathe it in me once
More wind.
another question.
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