There is a broken place,

At the core, right at the very centre,

Like a gaping weeping wound it bleeds,

It steadily draws the lifeblood as a leach at the vein,

And though I try and stem the tide,

Staunch the flow,

I labour in vain,

And the oozing wound remains.

It knows all the pain and trials it has seen,

It knows of unanswered prayers and unsatisfied needs,

It knows of those whose suffering is beyond obscene,

And it is for them that it bleeds,

But the river that runs from the ragged gash,

Only serves to remind us that time is fleeting,

And if we can’t make our own weeping hearts intact,

We may fix another’s while ours is still beating.