a torn
crimson piece of flesh
bleeding massively but soft still
and you continuously try mending it
for years
without knowing that
every stitch makes a new hole
a torn
crimson piece of flesh
bleeding massively but soft still
and you continuously try mending it
for years
without knowing that
every stitch makes a new hole
“every stitch makes a new hole”
I listen to the speech of blood flow in this poem. to fix something that is broken is magic and the reason why hundreds of loneliness persist. I’m not saying that wounds are incurable and irrecoverable – one can find a way, for example, to beautify loneliness or cure wounds by willpower and perseverance, well, it would be a step of a poor mortal towards mighty gods. but wounds are fire that flows and it is a task worthy of Hercules. The verse that I set aside is ambivalent in my mode of thinking and, therefore I find it elusive.
To fix something that is broken – it is the task of the Heart.