Curled,

stiff and strong:

your claw plows my soft skin,

where red streams

follow the trails,

succumbing to tearful river,

as droplets gravitate towards the floor.

 

My eyes are riveted to the closed door.

I can always wear another skin, fur:

dress in feathers or thorny petals.

But how my scarred heart will

continue to beat,

in between these lungs

as it is like raw egg

smashed against the wall?

 

Maja S. Todorovic

12 Comments

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  1. Hi Maja! Just got in to see your post. Two things you may want to just edit in the poem.

    Plows needs to be ploughs. We don’t have the first as a word, unless its American and i don’t think it is…. The other is ‘a or the river’ ‘How will my…’etc then makes it a question, with the question mark at the end, or, it could be ‘My scarred heart, like raw egg, smashed against the wall.’ with no question mark works as well.

    Ill send you my thinking around it.

    Thanks for all your good wishes of late. I really appreciate them. Ruth Sent from my iPad

    >

    Liked by 1 person

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