Finding wounds, unbelievably deep yet surprisingly stagnant
Purulent poison surrounds them
Though they are many and untended, death is not imminent
For surprising strength resides in this soul
There is no end of pain, yet of themselves these wounds will not destroy
Instead as a boil they fester
Swelling, Building, until at last
It must be lanced or burst
Spewing its misery and ache
Over any brave enough to remain near.
And yet there are those, and many in fact that would hear.
In brotherhood they come, wounded and scared as well
And yet in coming they bring the very key
The balm that may at last
Cause this wound to be closed
Either I will find a way, or I will make one.
Philip Sidney