Bleed as I Do, When Pricked by Thorn

Bleed as I do
You do not see my wounds
Caused by what you never say,
Only silence when you read my poem
Written with you in mind.

Do you not see the watery clouds,
Blazing and bleeding on western sky—
So red they seem like rose petals
Strewn across a bed.

One moment I am filled with sacred water,
Another I am awash in crimson roses
Lying on Impressionist garden path.
Can you not sense this little death?

Hold me close, as one might hold a rose.
Bleed as I do, when pricked by thorn.
Be among clouds, drifting so high
Your heart doesn’t work to love.

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