Don’t Pick It!

There’s a scab formed over the healing,

Crusted, dark red with an itch.

There’s a tendency to pick at the edges

Which makes it a bit of a bitch

To recover from injuries, the wounded

Temper their healing with pain,

Returning to hurts once inflicted,

Reliving the moments again.

There’s a process that bodies afflicted

Must go through, that’s just how it goes,

Time and salve make the difference

Though time definite nobody knows.

Some fester from constant exposure,

Scab picked for the whole world to see,

Supurating, rancid, unhealing,

A neglect of the way it should be.

Treat it with unguents specific

To purpose, then leave well alone

Healing is slowed by the scratching

And picking right down to the bone.


In dreams

I find the answers

To my searching,

In scenes

Depicted of

Another world.

On waking

I redeem

My body,

Reclaim my soul,


Quite unfurled.


Of a weird  and

Winding nature,


Enacted in

Etheric plain.

With smile

On lips

And laughter

Surging upwards

I rejoin life,

New perspectives gained.