Daily Poem Writing Poem by Charlotte Ballard

A hand held out
To an old time foe
Of relative dimensions
It snaps back, bloodied
Held up, the wound gapes
And I am not surprised.
Only the pains does, quick,
Wet, deep, and solid inside
My heart, as babies are brought down
As wife, as son, as soil for the worms
To borrow through,
Repeats, a multitude of times
Each one whispering about
The blood that comes
That always comes
It is meant
I guess,
By God’s demise
Of promises given,
And honor kept back.
I wish for no other.