until Sunday

darkness stains the pages,

when dreams bleed through my fists

and my heart ceases to beat

there can be no light at the end of this,

not possible,

and yet there is just this, after all:

the dark light, jagged edges and streaming wrists.

he is the mystery no one can solve,

the appalling truth too heavy for our lips.

our fingers tremble as we read the message carved in scars:

sometimes the rescue comes in disguise,

wearing a shroud,

bleeding until Sunday.