I don't think, my heart is of ice.
But I do know, that it is of stone,
On which not everyone can leave a mark.
And the hence formed, scars and inscriptions,
are not permanent either.
For time and rain, weather everything.
I don't believe, that I don't bleed.
Needles prick one after the other.
Sometimes by the spinning wheel,
Sometimes by roses,
And sometimes by both.
Each time, the white muslin soaks in scarlet.
But certainly, with every prick,
The pain dies.
Little by little,
Till I become completely numb to it.
And that's when, even a dagger can't kill me.
~▪︎○▪︎~
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Cottage Chronicles
PoesiaLife's chronicles from love, sorrow, anger, guilt, shame, happiness buried in a poetic cipher. Would you like some words and wine, on wooden floorboards? ©️ Feronia Grey
