Damage

 

Burned out husk-

still smolders.

Shell-shocked flesh,

hurts, blames, and

screams…sometimes.

Laughs.  Loves.  Lies.

Why does it still sting

when innocence dies?

How can the same mistake

Bite?

Over and over;

a poisonous snake,

whose venom washes through me.

Memories made dangerous

and painful again,

a collection of weeping scars.

I push them out:

a mottled, misshapen baby

rotten inside.

Rupturing,

membranes spill

the stuff of

Lost Dreams,

Haunting me,

still.

 

 

 

T.C. Barnes

January, 14th  2003