A pulsating wound…
Not mortal but could be fatal if left unattended.. 

How do you heal the unhealable…. 

Yet, so it was written… That which can be done can always be undone..Despite such.. You sit before me.. Exasperated expression.. Tears crescendoing along your cheeks..

And why?

 For a past hurt that time forgot to heal.. For time can’t heal all wounds… Time is but a construct of the imaginative.. An implant of the past… Will always be present…no matter what power you attribute to time.. In matters of the soul… It has none..

Disgruntled and disillusioned.. I am no sorcerer of time.. But I would beseech upon you.. Do share with me your tears.. Why does’t thou perpetually hurt… Art thou so accustom to it that it has become a part of you…as a scar would a soldier of war…

Verily I beseech upon you.. Do not push away my love.. My love may not be the answer.. But my love can help us to find a way..

Your blood drips.. Your wound can no longer be hidden.. Your hurt shows.. And you only have so much blood to give.. A rose has but so many petals to shed before it becomes unrecognizable.. And can a man cherish that which he can not distinguish..

I am but a man….

Holding a rose… That is down to its last petal…