Old Wounds

You never forget not being loved,

it seeps like old wounds,

the taste and texture

left on cotton wool tongues.

Appetite blunted,

tears that pride refuses to fall.

It is like the smell of

wood smoke in the air,

it permeates your clothes and hair;

and afterwards you sit

in steaming baths and rub,

hiding eyes behind candlelight

so that the only sparkle people

see, is bounced straight from

crystal glasses that shine

prisms on white walls.

Echoes blink, as years pass,

and perhaps your hand

will tremble just a tad or so.

Yet the smiles you project

still hold fast the

hurt inside.





Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 550 times
Written on 2008-08-13 at 08:54

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ngaio Beck
Exquisite!You really hit the nail.Some hurts never heal
2008-08-18


Rob Graber
Despite liking the smell of wood smoke, I also like this poem very much. Maybe it is in the nature of a wound to never heal in a complete and perfect way...
2008-08-13



So true, so true and there is no worse feeling....Old Wounds in deed Elle, loved it. Smiling at you, Tai, nursing hers still
2008-08-13