The
last wound
has not
healed yet...
the flesh
is still pink
under the
freshly fallen
brown scab...
I can
already feel
the next one,
malignant,
scheming,
creeping up
my flesh,
like a
spider spinning
its web of
still to be inflicted
sorrows...
Withering flowers mean
writhing butterflies...
There are
no last wounds...
Anirban Kapil Baishya(14/5/2007)
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