I still have a scar on my hand from a sharp blade.
I forget when the cut was made.
One of many over a long lifetime
of slips & full failures.
Was it my hand you took in yours?
You knew there was no such thing as safety.
Each finger filled with past threats &
disgrace from the things I have touched.
To just touch you.
Can your grace erase the seared scars
& poignant, putrid memories
of these hard hands?
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Author:
rebmasters (
Offline) - Published: May 5th, 2021 05:02
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 29
Offline)
Comments3
I liked that one very much, reb.
Not just scars on hands.....
Thank you!
Good poem, Reb.
Thank you my friend
so relatable, I agree that at times
there's a palpable physical residue: from loss (in its various forms)
that we have to pointedly - overcome, in addition
to the mental trauma, of it all..
a clever take and wonderfully paced!
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