...and when the morning came,
they cupped their hollow ribcages in stained fingers,
The wine and paint spilling through their grasp
And circling 'round their knuckles like rings,
They faced the south,
Where he stood still upon the altar,
Tracing scars down his back...

In the same way shutting a storybook is The End,
Watching him bleed through the sun's early golden light 
felt like the beginning.