Walking Wounded

Our pasts are shattered glass, our presents
Hardly gifts. We pluck the shards from
Injuries which we have hidden, rise again
To step again on what was ruined, fall again,
And whimper softly. See me, Jill, for who
I am: a staggered soul, so like yourself,
Who's come to see if you have tweezers,
Bearing naught but good intentions,
Offering to do his best to help you salve
Your wounds.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 21 times
Written on 2011-06-12 at 14:11

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