Scars do mend
when anointed with time.
Flesh like tissue paper,
tender and soft.
Past and present blend,
ghosts of crimes
are tortuous mind-graters
circling aloft.
Feel the knife tracing,
caressing, seeking the scab,
ripe to release the seams
of a wound once healed.
Heart is frantically racing
as the point subtly stabs.
Soul silently screams,
memories pouring from the seal.
Old blood drains,
new wounds join.
The married crimsons trickle.
The dagger drinks.
Broken are the veins
that have been purloined.
Ruined, more brittle,
the cuts begin to stink.
Will the future reconcile
that which has arisen?
Slices of the same blade,
actions by different hands.
Sore, skewed smile,
passive in this prison.
Forgiving the display
without a demand.
YOU ARE READING
Sitting Here Thinking (2020-2022)
PoetryPoetry of varying subjects and construction, the second of three. Written while sitting anywhere, lost in thought about everything and anything. Accolades: #1 Thought Provoking 2/26/2020 #1 Self-Reflection 3/22/2020 #1 Creative Writing 7/24/2020 #3...
