Picking At Scabs
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Written April 11, 2025, for Contest Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Quote: 1/ “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” ? Rumi
2/ "Many times we pick at the bitter, rusty scabs that form over a soul-wound, not allowing the heart to heal." By Poet
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In the tranquil twilight, what is on the mind drifts
Whispering wretched words, nightly bedfellow
Frozen by fright, feeble to bellow—
Recurring reveries, tarnished land clamps, and shifts
Awake amid an eerie embrace, dimly swirl in freight
Cyclone of visions coiling closely, cloaking arms dejected—
Sinking softly into a mattress where scarlet spots are detected
Waning wits weighed down by trauma weight
Smoky shrouds silently seep into sultry, scented air
Metallic mood mingles in lonesome layers, lacing limbs tight
Dwelling in dimness as kismet sinks into darkness light—
Derailed freight train dashing rashly toward disaster's lair
A steady pulse from weary bones warms the stern wall
Paper-thin panes pulled by a wobble in the mad wind whip
Hallucinogenic trinket and paranoia mix grip—
Depression sees life after death as an illusion call
Slyly lured to tear the scab, to rip and reveal flesh
Revisit the wreckage, relive the ruins, and mess—
Crimson cascades, casting a captivating curtain, no less
A scar that seals in a supreme struggle mesh
All alone, I gaze at my gaping wound
Calling for cozy calm with a cry so loud—
Disgustingly discerning disdain in a dense crowd
Healing happens to be an unearthed gem to be found
Pathetic desire to scratch and contemplate demise
Forsake healing pride, stinging earful shared aloud—
Banshee scream packs a wallop, uncomfortable and proud
While tantamount picking exposes fresh wounds, wise
Start wound healing, feel quite appealing
Fiddling with knives stops digging holes deep inside
Body protective stance is denied with each stride
Clings like water slipping through hands, revealing
The squish and smack of soggy peat—
Through living, the root wakes in my mind
But I do not incline to follow folks behind
The squat pen lies between my fingers, complete
Yeah, velvety evening, and bright delight
Dark scabs from itching, cutbacks won't close—
Stratum corneum scabies yolks curl pigtails morose
Only itching and scratching may indicate a mite
Scab pinch slows heal; arm bleed, blow gash, scrub
In a lush larkspur landscape, making a strange scab
Two-legged corkscrew creatures grow ill, galettes—
Thin fingers delicately crossed palates
Copyright © Sotto Poet | Year Posted 2025
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