a bridge from tears to blood

a bridge from tears to blood

leads gently to a pond

the moon drowns in her own reflection

and the stars follow along

a stare in the surface,

unwillingness of resemblance

searches in desperate attempt

for a burden that eases the cold

dresses them up with petals of rose

covering the whiteness of the skin

just to strip them down to the bone

leaving no trail of the wrong curves

call it melancholy,

a symptom of prose

to be loving for God

in despise of her wrong

call it forgiveness,

a symptom of mercy

to be loving of wrong

for it leads to God

call it what you will

convenience at most

but could you ever really escape

what you were born from?