Crucifix
It hangs on the wall, gingerly placed there.
A showcase not of religion, of war.
It's not haunting, it's reminding. It was salt on old wounds - fresh wounds.
War is the crucifix. The mind is nailed to one side, the heart on the other and the body lies nailed to the bottom. Blood seeps from crusted holes, memories mixing with the red making a dizzy smell of horrifying reminder.
It hangs on the wall, gingerly placed there.
My crucifix.
YOU ARE READING
Bruised Galaxies
PoetryCollection of poems. May be depressing and or triggering for some so if you don't want to read this type of poems I advise you not to read ahead. Hope you enjoy:)
