They are wells
with tulip's skin
not welts from
reckless kettle-burns
nor winter-slashes
on black mirrored ice
and not splintered-stones
moon-stitched,
lifeless
you say:
my memories are treacherously
frail
but inside this battle-weary heart
I keep a
purse of scars
burning
& stars writhing (still)
Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Quadrille - 44 word post with the word SCAR - The pub opens at 3pm EST ~ Thanks De ~
