When she returned to me that day
and saw I’d ceased to hope or pray,
she tore the thorn crown from my brow
and swore to me this sacred vow:

“My love for you has never ceased
and even when I seemed deceased
to you – while all your hair turned grey;
I never really went away.

And now I’ve knocked upon your door
your aching heart will ache no more.
For I will heal the hurt and pain
and never make you grieve again”

And so, my dream, that long lay dead,
like Christ, when all his blood was bled,
was raised to life before my face;
gave back – not one – but every trace

of girl, who’d crucified my soul
when love, from me, she once had stole.
And warm with life, with blood and bone,
not ghost, unreal, or copied clone

she stood, and shared her own cruel scars,
my goddess from the silent stars.
And so I’d heal and understand
she touched me with her nail-torn hands,

bestowing beauty – newly bled
and in that dawn of rusty red
we merged – two lovers into one,
and my grey grief I’d lived upon

she kissed away, and as sunrise
drew back the veil of her disguise,
the sorrow of our wasted years
seemed trifling as our teenage tears.