If I Could Tend Your Wounds

If I could tend your wounds, I would,
by tearing open fresh ones with my saber eyes.
I feel you bleed, no mess on the carpet,
it's only your heart seepage.
Allow me to check your pulse with my teeth.
You taste well, to my educated palate.
I hear synaptic harmonies escape
through the back door of your mind.
I will re-tune you one stroke at a time.
I see word walls crack, crumbling, untested limits,
the essential mortar.
Should we build a keep out wall or a welcome arch?
I taste your fear, the life banquet we all attend from time to time.
Permit me to feed you my grapes,
white; seedless passion, red; pits, pitfalls of caring.
I touch your creative self
bound by the life traps we all chose.
The womb you need to return to.
Encourage I can
with words stiletto sharp, satiny soft,
with images of seductive truth,
untouched realities.
If I could tend your wounds I wound, I could, I have!
Remember when you tended my wounds by inflicting truth.

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