The Phone Call
sometimes
the words
pull
at the scars
on my soul,
rend them
open,
gaping
wide wounds
that weep,
nerves
laid bare
stinging
in the
evening air
silently
thrumming,
reverberating out
into the night,
pulsing
with the pain
of unshed tears
that will not
come,
no release
indulged
this iron skin
slowly knits
together
as I sleep,
soul scars
shielded
once again,
in the
morning's light
I am
renewed
B.Y. Penman 2016