Monday, January 31, 2005


Wounds –
Festering, puss-filled –
Often like a scourge,
A private hell –
Sourly remind of a body
Rupturing with filth.

Wounds –
Like an ingratiating grin,
Skin deep or within –
Are like men bestowed with greed;
They just bleed.

That tongues lash
Smother hearts; leave it gashed,
As if pitted with
Burnt-ends of cigarettes.

And the wounds that heal?
Huh! A scar to scratch,
A dead skin to peel.

© Dan Husain
January 30, 2005

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