Winged Heart

I sit here wounded and spilling out, my receptions growing dim without the smallest of a doubt. Like a wine bladder my precious self weeps out of the dark wounds like molasses, which just like any good pair of eyeglasses, can compound with grime to light a blurred line of sight; still they weep.

Looking into your eyes I see you walking in the opposite direction the sun at your back. In your voice I hear the contempt you really hold for all that I lack. In your wrath I feel, the sting of the black Moray eel. It's cruel venom works deeply to my heart, it's goal to utterly wrench it apart.

Even so as we all know, wounds may heal or fester. Only the tender love and caring given from one to another will ever heal all damage done by the snubber. That, in our own minds eyes so for real, is like a path we have taken to feather, influencing us together.