Seventh Sense

The curse of touching raw
peeling scabs on
healing wounds.
To blind my inner eye
Deny images of falling stars
and burning worlds.

Plug the tinnitus, detritus
of screams.
Not gag on the stench
of armies in retreat,
meat on bleached bones
invading mouth and nose.
The taste of death.

These senses I would lose,
the unfelt, seen, touched.
tasted and known,
songs not sung
and flowers that will not bloom.

To loose the reds, blues and greens
Have only black and white
and silence in my sleep.

– Dave Kavanagh

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