Weary

I have spent too much blood on this,
This scent of a lingering pain
that so much catharsis hasn’t washed away.
Visions and love I could speak of,
but to what end?

If you could just see, for a moment, how I see
I would show you a thing so tender and so true,
That you’d know belief again, and pain.

In every moment that we rebuild our certainties with the breath we draw,
I consecrate another brick to this.

But what could I build?
to what purpose?
How could I keep the soft summer rain
from washing away all that stands?

And I am weary. too much blood.
Too much that must be given, again and again
for an edifice built on sand.