Held

Held

I am a stone chipped from a cold white tomb.

In your firm grip I'm comforted and scared,

my jagged edges fit wrong in your palm.

Both strong and tender, soft and hard,

you hold and hold and hold and hold; transformed

deep till the pain of being slowly eases,

quiet your life seeps in until I'm calmed.

But from your hand around my sharpness oozes

Redness. You could not grip me without wounds,

My name engraved in pain in your pierced hands.