The Curmudgeon

YOU'LL COME FOR THE CURSES. YOU'LL STAY FOR THE MUDGEONRY.

Tuesday, July 01, 2014

To A Scar

Once there was blood or fire, or both. Your red
Erupted, flowed, was read across the street,
By shuffling eyeballs bowed beneath your heat
In faces that might burn, but rarely bled.
Was it to spare those blushes that you fled?
Was it for such spectators, your retreat
Beneath the glaze of skin that shines the meat
Wherein you carved and cooked your mark of dread?

The raw volcano cooled to itchy crust,
Your history of harm submerged and dumb,
In muffled moans you suffocated rage.
Your lava locked away beneath the dust,
Feeling forgotten, now you are become
A grey line on a liver-spotted page.

Punter Thrugg

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