Bladed
Bladed
How dull is the knife wielded in passion's ire
which lands that menacing blow
where the bad time amplifies
tragedy's plateau
and wounds grow with time.
Things small
sometimes sting the most
tiny cuts which swell despite the years
And we allow them so
because their very smallness ires us so
we see they were avoidable
yet
that blade sliced thin slivers
which in time became infected
A cannon wound more understandable
because unpreventable
but lover's cold eye
lands blows unshielded
from that blade's edge
which slices easier
over quivering heart tissue.
Small lesions
old and new
I now surrender
by Will
and vanish them
begrudgingly
for they have pride's gauze
and memory for bandages.
Let me give them up
heroically as I do
for they are wounds of mine
and mask that we two
are one.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Added by Poetry Lover
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