Bang!
The wound gapes wide,
a crimson scream—
flesh torn like paper in the wind.
Bandages whisper,
"Hold still. I’ll help you heal."
But the bullet laughs,
buried deep,
a secret that festers,
a seed of pain growing roots.
Splatters of sorrow stain the earth;
a river that won’t run clear.
Tears drip, drip, drip,
like rain on a broken roof—
useless against the storm.
"Fix me," the wound cries,
but the bandage sighs,
"I am no mender of mountains."
The bullet sits still,
a thief of peace,
a thief of time.
Cracks crawl across the heart’s walls,
spiderwebs spun by despair.
The soul limps,
clinging to hollow hope,
but wounds do not close
where bullets remain.
Boom!
The echo lingers,
long after the shot has fled.
Bandages wrap the skin,
but the ache bleeds through—
always.
-Kritika
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Hymns From The Heart
PoetryAmateurs poetry on life, love, happiness, misery etc. The irony of pain is that you wanna be comforted by the one who hurt you.
