It bled, vein ruptured, a detached vessel Slowly at first, A door slightly ajar. A room not to be entered again. Filling up with light, From high slender windows. Only a glimpse, As it continued to bleed, This old war wound Gushing, pulsating with Every heartbeat Replacing light with shadows On a crescent moon night Door slammed shut by The wind of reason. Tourniquet made of longing and regret Wrapped around to stop the flow, Left pale and lifeless To mirror a refection Of what might have been