On the first day, a small hole Tears open this universe, our universe. Your blood, my blood, our blood Pours forth as living ink, Staining landscape with flowering Blotches of crimson graffiti Until the entire world is autographed. Abandoned, apparently I heal this festering mystery With a disinfectant scrub of faith, Suture the wound with A thin thread of hope, Rise above my own autonomy And discern for myself The true banks of the riverbed, Fording the distance of simply being alive Or being completely whole.
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