The wounded

image

The tongue is the quiver

Not unlike

darts, arrows, spears

hurtling forward, in deadly concert

finding their mark

wounding the countenance, dimming the esteem.

The target…

Pierced, grimacing, saying nothing.

Forging ahead.

Knowing responses elict more of what was tendered

fending for themselves

embracing silence as solace, shield, venue to heal, a salve for the wound.

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About Shun P. Writes

Writer, poet, possessor of 2 cents, blogger, recovering corporate animal and eternal student of life, who harbors a firm belief in his Grandmother's mantra that: "People need to get off of their rump and do something". All while keeping in mind that a cheering section will only get in the way.