Poem 37

The cold metal pressed against my arm

Readying for the release of liquid terror

Anticipating pain on a marked form

Suspended thoughts fighting the blade.

Time passes and still, no terror flows

The flesh freezes with unexpected contact

Too long has passed and it won’t be done

The action admitting the yearning cry.

Desperation for a physical mark to show

Bearing on behalf of the wounded mind

That organ so twisted and tortured in anguish

Yet hidden behind an ever false smile.

The metal releases, now warm from the fight

Stowed away ready for the war next night.

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