closing the wounds

Blood, it purifies.
Then, at last, it dries
to a shell of, well, memory.
I do not allow myself to be
forgetful about such things as pain.
Five months to the day
that I sent my heart away
it came back to me, slightly worse
for the wear. A worn and terse
red ink stamping: Abandoned.
So here I sit, peace
filling me with release.
My words, writ in respect,
curl halfway round the sun to reflect
upon the nature of closure.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.