Jabs in the heart often leave
lacerating scars; so they aver.
If age could draw a line
for it this far and no further?
My creative vein throbs at times,
blossoms with blue hope.
I covet the verdant blossom
feel it won’t give me a long rope.
To look back is not a riveting lay.
Better see one’s warts in the mirror.
Yet I do, see a long, stretched way
enmeshed in bristles of prickles.
All worth the straining of bones?
Oh! No…see the slivers in the horizon!
