when I hold you
I see the blood flow from the wounds
from your head, from your face, your back
the scars from the stitched bruises
you're trembling hands
you're shaking body
the sweat of shock, of endless guilt
shivering feverishly
breathing hard despite reality
i notice frightened gasps
as you grasp my being with helpless ecstacy
trying to shatter the dark
so much you're trying to forget, to heal
Rest for now, let me guide you to your sleep

very well put indeed. i leave satisfied.
misty...

You somehow manage to describe me exactly as I feel just now, my dear Franziska; I do indeed feel wounded. As Kierkegaard's essay has it, "Despair is the Sickness Unto Death;" whether or not my wound is mortal is yet to be seen, but it is indeed painful.

Thank you for this wise, kind, compassionate, and insightful poem.

Respect and solidarity, and love always,

+Stevie

Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est.