A tiny spot
Unseen by most,
Can't wash, don't fade, won't
be cast out.
An itch
Unscratched,
Beyond reach of tired
hands
From sore hearts that
worry, exhausted by feeling.
A tiny spot willed away
In spite, despite, a
never ending pain.
Too long every day
continuing the fight
In vain. In hope for
relief to surely come.
A tiny spot
That grows in the night
In crowds of empty
thoughts, moments ticking by.
It’s shadow firmly cast
on tomorrow’s every promise
As tomorrow’s shadow
creeps firmly across the floor.
A tiny spot
Distracted by ambition,
Poked by desire;
sunshine and a smile.
Smoothed by beauty, with
light and love,
Muffled in friendship:
understanding and true.
Calmed by fire, in
peace, in rage; suffocated with hatred
And emptiness and wine.
And envy and failure and longing and rain and sorrow and blood
And tears that tear at
the fabric of everything there
- but still. Nothing, will ever touch
The tired spot.