When hurt is embedded, so deeply within
how does one remove it, where do they begin?
The decay begins slowly, when a life starts a-rotting
and it cannot be changed by planning or plotting
It's not be chased, nor coaxed from it's lair,
not left to escape and vanish into thin air
It can't be extinguished as a fire with a blanket,
nor hammered into shape like coins with a planchet
It can't be wiped as from the eye like a mote,
or scraped like a barnacle from the hull of a boat
It cannot be pulled from the soul like a cord
or hewn as a rope by the blade of a sword
It can't be excised like a malignant lump,
nor can it be carted away to the dump
It can only be moved with love and compassion,
with time and with care, there is no other fashion
Categories:
planchet, hope, pain,
Form: Rhyme