The wounded


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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