My grief first borne was like
A wound fresh made that bled
And nought could stem its flow.
But as it healed
I'd pick the scab
And want to see it red.
I feared that if it healed you see
I'd have to let you go.
The wound I bore
Has hardened now
I wear it as a scar
I run my fingers down its length
And know an inner strength.
YOU ARE READING
Summer Sun, Winter Rain
PoetryMy Wattpad Debut and a Featured Story. Summer Sun, Winter Rain is a collection of poems from different periods of my life some, happy some sad. There are memories of friends and loved ones loved and lost, recollections of places I've been and thing...
