The blood leaked from my hand in threes;
Into a pool it tapped and drank,
Much better than those stormy seas
Where ships sailed and gladly sank.
Bleeding all my woe in tomes
And beauty in the red of rose,
Where my battered spirit roams
And all my pain succinctly goes.
Burn on you blasted cut of mine,
Sting me with your fiercest blow;
Because I am the master of my time;
My skin will heal, knit and grow.