I have a scar on my thigh from a simpler time.
It was filled with the winter sun and flowers not yet in bloom.
You said it would heal,
As time does all wounds.
Yet, when I look upon my flesh, I am reminded of you.
Luckily, I never believed in your tall tales,
Or anything that escaped your lips.
My mother warned me to be cautious of men with pretty faces and even prettier words,
But what of silence?
For that, is the loudest.
Actions speak louder than words,
But what of silence?
Silence is where lovers dwell in false assumptions and empty promises.
Silence is the lawyer's loophole.
I didn't scream out in agony over my wound,
But I still bled.
As if I were a tree in a desolate forest,
Did you hear me?
YOU ARE READING
An Ode to Muses to Euterpe
PoetryThis is a collection of poems that I wrote years ago and have since rediscovered.
