That heavy hand of blood; 
a palm open under skin.
Oh, it's an ache that never quells, 
this portal; this transcendence. 
See the cruor stretch,
crimson spilling out
to the rhythm of desire.

A clock that forever ticks
inside the instrument of heart,
the passion that never quits
under that bruise of skin.

Starlight fixed, delighting
wondrous wounds, 
picking out the pinpricks
of broken veins. 

This ache that never stops,
this want, this need, this clock. 

The End

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