The Wound


They say that Time-Heals-All-Wounds,

But they never told me about the scar that came afterwards.

The scar that could not escape the claws of Memory, as it

Heaved and weaved its way into the inner valleys of my mind,

Searching for the next chasm to hide and reside in before

Seeping into torrents of blood red waters.

Fleeting, it drags from one abyss to another,

Like a never-ending game of hide and seek.


The inner mind is like the intricacies of clockwork.

Interdependent are the wheels of time that turn and churn.

In whole, a magnificent design, yet

The absence of a wheel, the presence of a wound,

Can shatter, and pierce, even the surest of designs.

Steel on the outside, fragile on the inside,

All concealed within a polished encasement.

Wound up and again, just to run down once more.


A fractured machine, just a hollow shell,

Just shattered shards of gears gone cold,

Just ghostly valleys and polluted streams,

Broken pieces, and infected dreams.


Timeless, is the torture, of a wound.