worse than pain is knowing it will come
and inflict itself as horrid as none
afraid that nothing can be done
except accept or run and run
pain, when they spot and gesture
pain, when they speak and I can't
frail as the wings of a blessing
while I tear old me apart
cut in the face by the hot blade of shame
bloodshed eyes, cheeks and throat
tunneling through an awkward creepy silence
an ocean of seers, trying not to choke
after minutes that are months I know what to say
but now, as always, it's far, far too late