When a black sheet has been
thrown over the moon
and a million lazy stars
have fallen from view
I hear the wind has
grown tired of traveling
I hear the sound of mandolins
crying in the mountains
I hear the rattle of
gypsy wheels
I hear the heavy hearts
of horses upon the
restless roads of
broken poetry ...
Clay.M

Your hurtful actions were paper cuts,
Small, unintentional.
Overtime they built up
Now, every memory she touches
Stings like an open wound.

What began as paper-thin pain
Has torn gashes deep in her heart.
It bleeds, unseen,
At least it’s only on the inside.