A Winner's Ballade Poem by Edzel Frince Bual

I.
beneath the temple is a pulse,
each throb louder than the last beat;
a symphony like how Danse Macabre goes
hidden in the umbra, in hemostasis—
not even light can dare touch it,
not even a finger can dare lift the pain.
for when it itches where the scabs still bleed,
I scratch it over and over again.

II.
and when the skin sags and the knees fall,
the heart grows weary with defeat.
shall this pain grow, who knows
if life still hides its twists?
‘cause seasons change, we wait for spring—
it can't be sadder than September rain.
for where no one sees the scars that seep,
I scratch it over and over again.

III.
and to bare the wound is to expose
what festers deep where shadows sit.
shall silence speak, the tongue must roll,
and the truth must be freed.
too heavy to carry, too strangling to breathe,
and in the neck too tight a chain—
but as vulnerable as the earth's surface can be,
I scratch it over and over again.

IV. (Envoi)
before me is poetry that heals,
written by a balladeer of pain.
if life is a gamble, I'm a lottery ticket—
and I'd scratch it over and over again.