To speak the language of a bleeding heart…
Crumpled papers falling,
Lightning-tight words flying
As if…
As if there were still hope
Of mending the open wound
With childlike wonder,
With wanton abandon and endless
Fascination with the way two bodies touch…

No, it can’t be so simple as that…
The wingless fae with a wand of spun gold
Could not chase the red river away.
Erect a dam, tend it well…as maybe, just maybe,
The flow of blood, the arching white-hot lance
Of pain may slow…a bit.

To speak the language of a bleeding heart…
Soft tears falling,
Gentle touches soothing
As if…
As if there were still hope
Of mending this bloody, open wound
With childlike wonder,
With love calmly given as two bodies touch
In fascination with the blood that still flows…

Dena L Moore
July 23, 2004