At times, I dream myself besieged.
I rebel with the cunning of the weak.
I walk the shortcuts.
Tormentors clad
in blood-soaked black,
salute as I manipulate them
into realizing their abyss.
Some weep their sockets hollow,
or waive their thorns.
Much pain negotiated.
A trading of the wounds.
My chains carve metal
and I am branded.
Poetry of Healing and Abuse
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Sounds like a prophetic vision.
Some of it brought to mind what has happened to the Jewish people in the past. Sam, your writes always somehow get under my skin and cause me to ponder. Powerfully written!
A blessed holiday season to you and yours ...
Richard Lloyd Cederberg