The wake

And the quiet cry of my bleeding heart

wayward across the open fields

where the word of predators feast

on the flesh of tender yield,

my aching quill does scratch the soul

in its ever searching pray

as a river through an open wound

throwing life’s blood upon the day,

and bent has brought its whimsy

the torment bound in stray

slicing eyes that they may see

among the platters of decay.

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