the wound

the wound, has pierced him full and deep,
he feels it throbbing, in his sleep.
the gaping lesion's liquid seeps
as he moans but never weeps.

a woeful tone escapes his lips,
he feels the pulsing, painful drips.
the weapon's handle that he grips,
is held fast by his fingertips.

the thrust she made, like a knife,
cut his soul and took his life.
the bleeding core, was not from strife,
but from love's tokens that ran rife.

he wore the wound with sinful pride,
the cut was from his beaming bride.
her love's the weapon buried in his side,
he bears it proudly and love not denied.

© 2014 ajwrites57
A Long
❤ ❤ ❤

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