Visible cuts we saw,
Deep set and so raw.
It had the pretty torn
And the beholder run.
Worn with its pride
As any true bride.
A scar from a war
Is like a lion’s roar.
Not on Everest’s peak
Must anyone do seek,
For even on all hills
Are these worlds ills.
The baby that cries,
Steals away and tries;
To be his own parent,
Where he is only sent.
That spouse out back;
Behind one Holy Ark,
Leaves the same vow
Yet remains, some how.
They; as many, are
So near and not far.
Wounds made bold
In this very world.
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