A Poem

By Bic Parker

The night was young

and full of misunderstanding

but he drank away his fears

in the chalice of her heart

No longer did the pale hand of drought

sow the barren seeds of doubt

in his ravaged mind

She nursed him,

A festering wound,

and wound the tourniquet

above his shrapnel-scarred soul

And then she pulled. . .

Strand by strand

Until there was no more.

Only she remained

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