Eleven

Eleven bloody wounds march down my leg,
And not content, for companions they beg.
They halt not for God or Love or my son,
Proof of a battle hard-fought, but not won.
Strange it is, this lust for blood and a knife -
Strange desire in a mother and a wife.
Anger drove the blade, and fear, and shame.
Darkness covered all, but was it to blame?
To neither Love, friend, or God did I run -
I felt the urge, obeyed, and it was done.
Boundless pain and darkness renew their hold,
And lust for blood grows ever more bold...
Will it ever stop? Will it ever end?
Not while to shadows my knee I still bend!
Oh God, part the Dark, send light streaming through...
Make me a child of light - a child of You.