we are the watchers of the darkMature

we are the watchers of the dark,
the ones stitching back these bleeding hearts
into ribs torn open by bitter fingers.
we press down, we press again, we press harder
until the life returns and the lungs gasp for air.
but we are specters disappearing like a wild dream,
too enigmatic to be seen and too impalpable to grasp
with trembling, desperate hands.

The End

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