Wounds. . .

Wounds –
Festering, puss-filled –
Often like a scourge,
A private hell –
Sourly remind of a body
Rupturing with filth.

Wounds –
Like an ingratiating grin,
Skin deep or within –
Are like men
Bestowed with greed;
They just bleed.

Wounds
That tongues lash
Smother hearts;
Leave it gashed,
As if pitted with
Burnt-ends of cigarettes.

And the wounds that heal?
Huh…a scar to scratch
And a dead skin to peel.

© Dan Husain