Mourning

The thorns from the dead roses are in the flesh of my lips.

They let me taste the blood,

the blood that’s black; 

frightening

my body.

.

I hit my knuckels against the wooden door,

so my wounds are whining,

without you I can’t take it anymore.

.

I let the wineglasses crash down onto the floor.

With shards entering the flesh of my feet,

the veins inside are screaming in need.

Will I ever pray “Hallelujah” in this 

distress?

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