It was raw, that place, where you wounded me,
even though you had no understanding of the blow,
nor that words had become a weapon which could
injure, even kill, and time and distance blinded

eyes, which could no longer see, and yet, I
dreamed of vision being restored, of time
opening up to savage you with light, that the
reflection could spread around and beyond

the weeping sore, and whisper healing breath
upon the seeping flesh of heart, and soul, and
mind, of all that I had ever thought myself to be,
and yet, without it, the pain became a force which

pushed me on, seeking for my own sure bandage,
something which could wrap around and hide for
a time, the truth of what had been, a salve for hurt
which had no name; such are the raw moments.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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