Dripping, bleeding, curling,
with anticipation, waiting
wondering indifferent
and weathered by time
and relentless emotion.
Not responsive or even
Trying to be. Just a shell
visible, and yet so empty in
its way, it drifts in and out like
faulty hearing
or a badly reopened
wound. So much blood
is expected, and yet
so little comes from
that grotesque, intrusive
scar. That mark of past
pain. The unforgettable war
and the silent, long enduring seasons
that come and go so gracefully-
all trying to tell a story
gently but through a
haunting, merciless reminder
such petulant savagery
such wild destruction
so much that falls in through the sleep
we seek. The dreams we make
and the hearts we try to spare.
I'm not happy here. How much do those words really bring to a mind that is
unprepared for change?
How much can those words
heal and resolve
in a place soiled thickly
with old, dark fear
stains, and deep scars
and fresh scratches on faded hope
and confidence.