Deeper than words go,
the summer sun’s
and the scalpel’s reach,
wounds graffiti the human soul.
Old abandoned wounds,
overgrown, derelict, dark,
littered with decaying damp detritus.
Sparkly new wounds,
glistening with fresh, pungent paint;
landscaped to perfection.
The wounds of human existence
that outlast old age, sore as hell;
poisoning the soul’s resistance
to the shadows of the past.