My heart's crumpled paper
will never again be pristine
a flat sheet, clean,
the birth of imaginings
never more to scribe.
Yesterday's words leak past bandaged cracks
a mere trickle, the torrent gone
the odd ooze of feeling
from a stitch and plaster itch;
an irritant I daren't peal off
for fear of tearing the page.
A pen poised, a new tale waiting
to jot, hide the creases, the folds
smooth it out once more
check the wounds and reapply time's salve;
the ridges add definition.
Not every shadow lurks monstered.
They're good at it
and tomorrow's wind may yet see
this page tumble away
to mulch in a ditch
with other forgotten leaves.