The Healer

Tell me please,

Can I be your healer?

If I place my hands on your wounds,

Those wounds I am responsible for,

Will you feel the warmth of my glowing finger tips?

Will the pain fade and the bleeding cease?

Or am I destined to only make your bleeding worse?

Will you flinch at my touch, and shy from the pain?

My rough callouses tearing at your soft skin,

Burning, cutting you deeper, hurting you.

Are the wounds I made irreparable?

Do they run too deep to close?

Are you bleeding straight from your heart?

And if you are am I the cause?

Did I hurt you the most?

Or only reveal the pain you hold inside?

That pain courses through your veins,

Like a poison, waiting to burst forth

At the slightest scrape.

To spill forth with all the agony of losing

Everything you thought you held dear.

Some wounds will never heal,

And I cannot know the difference between

A bruise and the total destruction of the flesh.

For I am no healer, I am the injury itself

I am the cause and formation of everything wrong.

All the detours from your righteous path lead back to me.

How could I, the savage beast who preys upon the weak,

Ever hope to hold you tenderly, in arms that were made

For murder, stroke you with hands that strangle

The joy from a summer breeze.

Oh hateful me, to have wrought this terror upon you.

 

 

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