Paper Cuts
Poetry
How I miss the magic of the night.
Its lure comes back to haunt me,
like sharp paper cuts that slash the soul
and gnaw at sleepless shadows.
There is no fiction stronger than the truth,
no paradox more resilient than the crumbling infrastructure
of the pristine heart now filled with the darkness
of venomous snakes and devious sewer rats,
the scabs of anachronistic bitterness.
Once burned, a broken bridge becomes impossible to cross,
doused and destroyed by incendiary devices
inflamed and ignited by the arsonists’ tools.
Once trust dissipates into ashes
that flow through ruptured veins
and all perspective becomes distorted,
there remain the scars,
the paper cuts that slash the soul,
and the poetry that gnaws at the shadows
of endless, sleepless, tortured nights.
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