Wounds

I think this poem doesn’t look at where I am now, but where I was, when I wasn’t sure I could go on. It’s odd to try and get into the head of someone you were not that long ago. It feels like someone else now, but I still remember being inside their head. How many people have I been?

Fighting for Love

“What’s the point?”

The wounded soldier asks

As he clings to his wounds

To hold back the rushing blood.

“What is the point of the fight,

Holding ground,

Just To bear all these wounds

Should I stop the pressure
And just let it bleed?"

He watches the oozing mess between his fingers,

Just his hand keeping some of the life inside

He considers letting the weakness wash over him

So he won’t have to fight anymore.

Giving in to the sorrow

Hiding in the bed

Nibbling at crackers,

Enough to live, but who wants to gain your strength.

Strength brings the pain

Who wants to get up?

To walk on legs made of water

Wounds cutting so deep, they pierce to the other side, and bend 
          back again

Weaving through and through, till there is nothing left

Except the tapestry of wounds.

The red torrents spill upon the unwashed floor

Life pours away

The soldier clutches his wounds

Hold on.

For no reason, he thinks of a joke

A chuckle.

No great moment.

On a normal day of chores

Just a single laugh.

One smile long before,

And he gets the point,

Stands up

Walks out the door

And healed looks for more