Flits. Biting deep into bone and marrow,
into the memories of yesterday
and the possibility of tomorrow.
Chase blues to reds and bright to black.
Under attack. Flits

Darting, dashing flits
that buzz and burn and turn
on the coin of half remembered words
that cut like paper and sting like nettles. Flits

Flits buzz into blind sight,
every slight and every trace of hate
that pierced a heart unfit to despise.
Lies told by the smiling laughing leeches,
life lessons teach us in increments of pain
and scars unseen still remain. Flits

Flits. Thorns buried deep that fester and weep
Seeping poison into the well of hurt that itches
and irritates as it pulsates. Hate.

© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com

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