Old Wounds Have a Way of Knocking
Old wounds have a way of knocking
when the house grows still at night,
appearing like familiar shadows
just beyond the reach of light.
They arrive in borrowed voices,
in memories dressed as truth,
wearing faces I once trusted
from the broken years of youth.
They whisper,
Perhaps you never healed at all.
Perhaps the scar is just a seam
waiting for the smallest pull
to split apart at every dream.
And for a moment,
I believe them.
I feel the ache beneath my skin.
I hear the echo of old battles
calling me to fight again.
But wounds are not the same as doorways.
Not every pain must let us through.
A scar remembers where we've traveled;
it does not tell us what to do.
So, I sit quietly beside it,
like an old friend passing by.
I do not run.
I do not follow.
I do not ask the reason why.
I simply let it have its moment,
the grief, the fear, the ancient ache.
Then watch it fade like distant thunder
across a sky it cannot take.
For healing was not being untouched.
It was learning, day by day,
that old wounds may still come knocking,
but I no longer have to stay.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
