It’s the cut on you wrist,
The slash on your left eye,
The brake of a leg,
And a tear not cried.
The power is scary,
The pain unbearable,
The crack unwanted,
The time not taken.
The rush of wind,
The sour taste,
The tended ripped,
The feel not left.
It won’t go away,
It wants to stay,
It takes over,
It won’t give in.
The blood rushes,
And begins to bubble.
It becomes cold just as it does,
Then falls down until the last drop.
Then it heals very slowly,
And you see no ripple.
It never even happened,
And the beat comes back.

 
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