Wounds renewed
knives were sharp,
****** fingertips
play the harp,
for a joyous union
yet again,
could've been
entwined in
strands of her mane,
bathed in requite at last.
Bled in a chalice
not in vain,
to be sipped a little
each passing day,
to ease the pain,
to yearn away,
yet again.