Poems from the
Inside
Seek
the light of day . . .
Small Cuts
He sat there dazed and staring; faded, frayed,
fatigued, yet full of wisdom and remorse.
He held out his hand, it ouzed a bit and leaked
a drop of precious blood upon the ground.
He sat in clothes as worn and tired
as his tender, weathered, dreaming face.
He spoke so soft and slowly that I leaned
to catch the disconnected threads he had to say:
"Small injuries, the cuts you never notice
like little words that flay and burn the soul . . .
you never see them lurking in the air
and almost never hear them snick
unless the wounding comes as loud and blaring
as a freight train bearing down upon your ear . . .
a thousand little cuts, aggregate of time,
or a prelude to a peeling of your flesh
exposing all the writhing lies beneath . . .
the kindest cuts cut deepest, truly,
they can cause to heal, or cause to maim . . .
© D. Winter 2001
