Flung Pain
the hurtful fling their pain through the sticks stones slurs they hurl at others hoping - like in a game of tag - that the pain will go away but relief is fleeting for the pain does not shake loose it divides like a cell half expanding to claim its old home half becoming new-grown chunks stuck like flung mud on the victim where it waits in dark quiet places crusting and hardening, itching to be flung itself the flinging circle must be broken to still these hatchlings of a battered heart Harry W. Yeatts Jr. |