Thumb Throb

The throbbing has continued

For hours as my blood sours

The pain is isolated

Yet also spread

The progress of time

Blood

Sticky, sickly, slowly

Blossoming from my hands

Water the dead dry sands

Drought of doubt lands

Tiny shards of hot metal

Fleck my face and neck

Stings and small bites

The ghosts of old injuries

Haunting my joints

I’m yet too young for these miseries

Yet it remains one of life’s points.

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