PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Old wounds flare up, taunting me with laughter,

Recalling itches I shouldn't have scratched.

Many frustrations follow me after,

A succession which I've duly dispatched.

Crisp orange and yellow rush in the breeze,

Raptors majestically make their way south,

Yet I cannot see the wood for the trees,

Past winters' sorrows falling from my mouth

As I ponder the rings in their surplus.

Oh, so many years of pain and regret,

But I know probing them doesn't serve us.

I pledge to take these things I can’t forget

And walk them calmly past the rifle range,

File them under what I cannot change.