Wounded

He is like a wounded knee

need only touch him and it hurts.

as delicate as the day he was born

time as yet has not healed the scars

Of the flesh wounds in his heart

that lie bleeding like a river’s flow

sometimes still and at others rapid

tears splash the rocks like gentle rain

As they fall upon the wasteland

that is his memory of love forlornh

his thoughts to pastures new, to forget

That he can never love another in his life

and had his chance to grow the flowers

but chose instead to leave them to wither and die

rather than water and care for

The garden awaits, the heart pounds

for a new spring time will come

and his lover will grow again and be safe

like a child, like a child.