Unruly Cinders
Eyes that criticize
Hold unwarranted power,
As they gaze on with reticent anguish,
Laying up a store of waste for every day and hour
Passed, by raking
Emotions over embers
And coals, hot with disdain – unless,
Saved by a pair of unruly cinders
That escape the burnt-up heap,
Sparking compliance
Of a sort; the catalyst
For neutral acquiescence
In which the Victim and the Critic
Are together absolved
By the disappointing fact
They were both at fault.
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Imprints
Stirred up silvery-grey and black-fleck
ashes of aged hurt
Threaten to float up,
Re-settle on fresh, tender derma
Time was supposed to heal.
But no length of time seems enough to build
An impermeable callous, and
no callous would be thick enough to
Protect from the branding of burned
Flesh – a scar
Pressed upon its victim
Assuring nothing – not ownership,
Nor loyalty, nor commitment –
Only the impression of infliction.
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