Terminal Wound

Terminal Wound

Posted on:May 14 2009
By:Flint McGlaughlin

Anger, tears, a boiling cauldron,
Seething with steam from a waterless pot.
Anguish, pain, a reckless defending,
Festering wound from a weaponless shot.

Someone please send for the surgeon;
someone please send for the knife.
If only a piercing incision,
could carve out this cancer of strife.

Weeping, Shame, a tangled regret,
Choked on the lips, just an unspoken thought.
Sorrow, fear, itself a reprisal,
The furnace is cold but the coals are still hot.

No surgeon can vent this word poison;
no knife can stay this grim fate.
The serum must come from the venom, and soon…
for it’s almost too late.

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