I heard from a friend
that you’re re-writing old poems again,
a very brave thing to do.
I can visualize your eyes
Careering promiscuously from one word to another,
in pinball fashion.
Those sweet words from your sour heart
you bled them like a prize-fighter,
promises and punches from hand to fist.
To me your words are scar tissue,
raised wheals like the corners of a dog-eared book
tiny wrinkled fat thumbs dug into the page.
Would we could write again
erase the venom, kindle the flower
find new words to love.
© Graham Sherwood 12/2015
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