And she took her heart and a soldering iron
and she cauterized her soul.
It was a stump, a charcoal black.
It smelled scorched. She gagged, then retched.
She seared the crimson quiet.
And then it did something unexpected.
It bled...and bled...and bled...
and wept tears of blood.
She took the torch, turned it on;
tongues of blue flame licked the wound.
But still it bled.
"And the bush was burning and yet it was not consumed."