when love's not served on silver, but sliced on knives' edge
from wounds we learn to draw the gentlest pledge
the violence unseen
it shapes our soul's embrace
transforming scars into verses
a tender grace
nothing concludes with verse or rhyme's decree
yet endings birth poetry from life's debris
blood once spilled held no beauty in its hue
just crimson streams
a truth we misconstrue
yet in the gaze upon our wounds
we endeavor to find solace beyond
in moments that sever