When We Get There
When we get to our appointed heaven
hearts and minds still cooling
slights and insults recovering
from many a minor bullet hole
from small caliber affronts
loathing’s and spites
and other petty punctures
wounds covered over so long
with rank plasters
plugs and scabs
that even now leave
a tell-tale lingering smell
an inevitable odor
of a once self-inflicted hell
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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