Stick figures run across my pages in jagged lines
short sharp sprints to the end of marathon weariness
they join hands and form words or phrases across pale-papered fields
they race or fall, broken and failing before the finish line, in their hundreds
and thousands. Each one imbued with some meaning to me or to you
or the chaotic melee of some mortal battle

These joined figures carry weapons, sharp and deep, cutting
wounds torn from me in bloody ragged gouges
mimicking the scars on my body where the pain became
overwhelming and too much to bear
They come frost-rimed and in intolerable heat
torn from darkness into the harsh light of exposure
they bring no catharsis or solace, reflecting more than healing
as the lacerations you left grow deeper, infected
with sorrow and grief and the asperity of these words

These figures rush like lemmings to their inevitable demise
to be as forgot as their author, in hours or days or weeks
moss over the unmarked resting place of both
growing wild midst martyred love and shattered saint

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