The blood seeps over my fingertips
And I see my complexion from clear glass in front of me
Beautiful still, but pallid and stunned as crimson drips to my elbows:
Love, Love, verily, I’ve killed Love.
"Not again!" a voice howls
It sounds from outside but tingles my vocal chords
And Reason and Logic and Pragmatism join hands and encircle me
Each sporting brilliant new medals on their *******
"Begone!" I cry, and they coldly smirk and slowly fade away—
God, what a God— why so wretched and cruel to give me this fate?
But God hath given free will
The true shame is I am the one who penned this destiny—
And I see other hearts scatter the floor
Still beating weakly
—Pathetically—
their veins drain from some vicious creature’s attack:
Some evidently wicked hands hath ripped these hearts
fresh from hopeful chests;
I see the red dry under my nails.
But, Ah! Love is miraculous!
Is Love to come and work deep magic and revive these hearts?
Are these hearts to be restored — nay — even one?
…Or am I to sit alone, some proud and regal queen,
Upon a rising mass of battlefield’s aftermath?