Wounder
Rest of a dry wound on the skin, it stretches if it gets wet later, it wrinkles if no one dries it afterwards: stains that we carry with us. Yesterday I saw torn yellow pennants hanging in the hall of the building. Looking carefully, he would realize they were telling the human story beyond its likely sad ending. I also saw the ugly veins of old green carpets, maybe they were the stage for clashes between forces of good and evil: stains we don't even know about.
Among what we carry, scars, and what we only notice, spectators, grandiose events remain and we never participate in them, so we know nothing of sacrifices, unfit for spectacular adventures, absent from surprising achievements, we are the unprepared audience of a world too ready to our weary craving for nothing.
Copyright © Marco Chies | Year Posted 2022
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