Safety of not

Bundled up
In small wreaths
Was the wound
Sentencing the now
To a memory bank
It’s shallow and furtive
Wending
Did blood stop
But earlier
Its spotted sin
Had fouled the cloths
And now they red
Like the imbecile eyes
Of a dead warrior
Lay still untended
By nurse or comfort
Moaning bequeathed
Its anthem to them
Those celibate souls
Who watched in fear
Unable to redeem
Unable even to aknowledge
Sin has a way
Of ending even its very ness
Now here under moon
And hopes dearth
He lay untouched
Solemn as the clay
And dirty as its birth
Unclad by spirit
And new birth
Simply a tumbled man
Without his light