It’s odd – the
damage we leave behind in our wake
It’s hardly even
there, practically invisible
And yet, if you
reach out with that index finger
You can feel the
rough scab of the the wound
That’s as extensive
as a dried riverbed, forgotten
Filled with
innumerable stones that no one counts
No lazy boy will
sit by its side again and throw pebbles
Make ripples, or
see how far they go, or how deep they sink
No paper boats, no
sound of water, no floating leaves
In time, it will
turn into an odd scar with so many stories
That no one will
ever take the trouble to turn the pages, again.
