The Wound

My dreams are always the same...

If I am able to sleep at all,
then I am transported to the
battlefield of a lost war.

I stumble blindly through the ashes and the smoke.

My hollow eyes are opened now,
but there is no hope to be seen.

I am weak,

bleeding

fearless,

Defeated.

It seems strange to my faraway sanity,
the wound through my gut
seems to hurt in my heart instead.

Corruption eats away inside my chest,
transforming life into toxin.

My skin is dry, as is my mouth.
I taste the smoke and the bile,
mingled with the stench of death,
and bitter tears.

If I had any friends here,
they are now no more friends
only food for worms and flies.

But the truth is, I had no one:

No one to stand at my back in the battle.

I believed in one, but I was deserted,

Left Alone,

Forsaken,

forgotten.

That was the wound which bled me dry.

I could have withstood any battle if only...

 If only I had been worthy of your love.

If only you would have given me your hand.