Sunday, January 06, 2019

Splinters, a poem


Some loves are splinters, more
relief than pain when they
are drawn from our tender
flesh. Ah, but some

have barbs. Some leave a wound,
slow to heal, aching
through the nights. Some remain
beneath the skin, to be,

at the last, absorbed,
transformed into who we are.

Stephen Brooke ©2019

Again, my satellite-based internet has been out for a couple weeks while stationary fronts draped themselves across the Florida Panhandle and rained incessantly. Maybe I remain hooked up for a little while now.

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