Wounded

In every human life there comes a time when love turns sour,
When feelings once so bright and strong begin to cringe and cower,
For some the ravages of love create deep-rooted scars
And cowardice comes creeping in like sly weeds in a vase.
The haze of hurt they wear is like a cloak of shattered dreams,
Reflects the colour of their hearts; that yellow-bellied gleam.
The fear of love those wounded souls all cravenly deny,
A terror that their ardor will be met with harsh reply.
The tragedy of tender love and loss and aching heart,
Informs their every move and puts their openness on guard.
And if I was to curl into a ball so small and round
The scatter of my leaking tears would barely make a sound.
The silly fools will all pretend that happiness is free
Because the cost of pain is etched so deep inside of me.

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