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The rough, and, scarring,
bodily scourges,
are no comparison,
to being forever burdened,
by the torment of,
a scabrous, jagged mind.
That’s the living abstraction;
of being; a callus’t one.
Knowing the thin,
and, fickle nature of life,
whilst, saying, “It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

Holding on, to a grip of things,
in the present,
juxtaposed,
with, sharp memories; incessant,
cuts deep, into physical,
and, metaphysical flesh.
That’s the piercing knife;
you wield; as a callus’t one.
Keeping wounds open enough,
to prise, pain; permanent, and, fresh.

Broken-ringed, vows, and, promises,
littering the circular streets,
I’ve walked around, alone,
in annular defeat.
Unable to cry; blue-discs,
of rotating grief.
That’s the circus clown smile;
you show; as a callus’t one.
Hoping a risen moon, soon,
opens a gloomy throat;
in the ground; swallowing…
mortal relief.

That’s what it takes; to be forgiven;
and, finally;
a callus’t none.

© poormansdreams

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