Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site


Tags: Life, Death, Scars, Old


Sometimes, they never really heal


Submitted:Dec 21, 2009    Reads: 118    Comments: 10    Likes: 5   


I snagged my shirt on a branch, today

Whilst racing in the shadow play

With the fairies, I struck alarm

To feel the scratches on my arm


But material are the scars there

An infant graze on skin so bare

Not like the one that has come to stain

My heart, my soul, my ground, my pain


Mesmerised by sleeping thorns

Remind me of old scars I mourn

Reopen! Undoing of the secret seal

For truly, they never did heal


Staining paper, with a rouge so deep

The reddest ink, the blackest sleep

I wonder why the strain is sparse

The blood is real? Or just a farce?


I can't help but wonder why

No pain is felt, but tears I cry

My body is undoubtedly tarred

Just my mind, so it is, that remains scarred


I breathe in, one last time

Clear all thoughts from my mind

Now and then, life is ours.

My faded skin, my old scars







5

| Email this story Email this Poetry | Add to reading list



Reviews

About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.