-Ars Veniae

I held thy knife, still stained with love,
Its edge, a resonate from above.
not wrath, not hatred, nor my flame,
But a deep tranquilty and forgiveness frame.

I walked the halls where echoes bled,
Where the dead whisper I once tread.
Yet in that remnant of memories cage,
I chose to close the book of rage.

Thy hand veiled with red wine,
Yet still i stayed and bore the cost enshrine —
For pain craves my soul into fragments,
But hate is death — and love is a true elements.

Man is but filled with desire song,
Burning with wrath, mercy cold.
However a fleeting trembling flame,
Both child of guilt and bearer of shame.

To forgive is not to abolish the wound,
But to let the scar become a blessing found.
It blooms not where the clean hearts dwell —
But in the depths of living hell.