Treasure Island

RIC S. BASTASA


in these poems that we write


these are the wounds of the heart
let your fingers pierce that part

blood drips from a wounded heart
pain gleaming against the light

time has not healed the wounds
you can hear the screaming sounds

these are the wounds of my heart
we are not many miles apart

we share the wounds of the heart
in these poems that we draft

Submitted: Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Edited: Tuesday, May 22, 2012

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