Flesh is tender,
though the fangs of spikes are poniards
tempered in blood.
I am real
and heartbroken to my bones.
I hoped this thorn that I born with within my flesh
could never last and pass my bloom.
Now I know the brim of my wound
would never bridge,
like the indexes in Creation of Adam
on Sistine Chapel ceiling.
Living is indexes beyond reach.
I know my bleeding blushes all these blooms.
I know rains would never sew up
the rifts of these parched clays
until I die.
They only are temporal palliation
not remedies
to my thirsts.
Flesh is tender,
though the fangs of spikes are poniards
tempered in blood.
Now
there are no fangs
only the current,
a gushing river that gashes this valley
and carves these terrains to ravines and valleys.
There is no bridge that could stitch this wound of us
back together.
And wound get festered
turning into gangrene.
Flesh is tender,
though the fangs of spikes are poniards
tempered in blood.
There is no substance
left to materialize
between the yearning and pleading edges of these hurt.
Though in infinity things mirror poles apart;
the more this wound opens
the more we patch the gap of our fractioned souls,
the more we get near the collective us,
the more we seal and heal
the wound of existence.
Flesh is tender,
though the fangs of spikes are poniards
tempered in blood.
