into the abyss. Into the pit,
dug by our Actions, our Inactions,
formed of our Misdeeds.
Yet, blame, we shall, our Misfortune.
The Tides- they rise. They fall.
The Virtues we thought we held dear;
the Promises we swore we would never break, we break.
The Bonds we forged, the unending Gaze we held, fade.
In Time all Wounds heal. The scabs fall off,
But some cuts run deep;
many leave Scars.
The Brave among us (and there are a few)
stare at the Pain until they feel it no more.
For most though, Pain is Victor.
In Time all Wounds heal; so we tell ourselves.
Most bleed us dry.
How do we weather the Storm;
the quiet, constantly piercing Sword kissing our green-hued veins?
How do we Heal?
Hope. That powerful verb that turns punishing when it morphs into a noun.
Hope. It is what bestows belief.
Hope. That feeling that everything shall heal; that time itself will turn back,
and that the Scabs will reverse to turn Skin once more.
Poet’s Bio: Ranju Dodum is a journalist based out of Arunachal Pradesh in India’s far north-east attempting to tell stories about the struggles and pains of people largely neglected and away from the glare of mainstream media outlets. He sometimes dwells in poetry and prose but on most days he just wishes he was Batman. His articles can be read at his personal website here.