That Tired Spot

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.