Drenched is the heart,

As is the soul –

Soaked in the freshly-spilled blood of the past,

Though they bathe,

Choose to seek a sort of comfort,

Spending hours in the liquid

Until they’re stained completely red

And their insides warmed through.



The mountainside holds a truth,

A stoned pathway, spiralling upwards

In the same way,

Rainfall spirals downwards,

Only reversed,

And as the mountains become wet with storm,

The pathways crumble in such futility.


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