There was a divider line.
Some point in time.
But I wasn’t aware of it then. Am I even aware of it now?
The day and the hour and minute everything changed?
It was so swift,
It brought me here now, you know.
And I wouldn’t otherwise be.
Yet, here I stand so I ponder and question it:
When had the mark mended me?
Because I know the what and the why and the how and the who.
But today I see crystals and question their substance.
It’s a thing I’d skipped over before.
So when had the mark mended me?
Because still, there is crimson.
It dances in black water.
And its persistence is now fierce in me.
Like a million vagabonds born into a city that never sleeps. Oh, how they hunger. How their search goes on and they beg to be fed, while they know deep down they will never be fed. Not really. Appetites never to be quenched in full. They are wolves. Each one of them. With claws and fangs made to tear into the flesh of their prey. It is how they were raised. Bloodthirsty because they had to be. At some point this choice was made. Then and there the nature of the world was accepted for what it is. And maybe one day it will evolve into something new. But even if it does, one thing is certain. There’s no going back.
And there’s no going back.
Nor desire to do so.
But I wonder what composes a moment of transition,
With gratitude for the moment your mark mended me.
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