Your fingers usurp

Each cicatrix

As soon as it is laid.

They must have hated

Themselves bitterly

To behave as they did.

It is hard to see the target

In the wreckage of war

And in the end we all have

A bulls-eye within our breast

So magnetic and insidious

That it would draw in

Even those arrows

Not specifically intended for us.


There is always

An audience for humiliation

They line up like teeth

Hoping to witness

A predicament more formidable 

Than their own.


The crowd thickens

A piece of cloth,

A tuft of hair,

A cheap locket

Whose significance

Is unscathable, pocketed.

Death is not a souvenir.


I can only drink

The superficial blood

The pain at your core

Is not for me to swallow.

I can claim to understand

But no one,

No matter how sympathetic,

Will ever live the reality

That you alone have defined.


Went for simple today

8 thoughts on “Bulls-eye

  1. Very powerfull!The start of the poem made me feel a slight fear, reading on the poem reminds me of Lady Lazarus poem, ofcourse, in your own tint and your own light, but still majestic.

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