an accumulation of wounds

a collection of injuries 

scars not visible 

to casual eyes 

i sit on a stool 

brushing my hair 

snow drifts, thick 

and slow past 

the window 

each day

the death count

rises

i am glad to be old 

to not witness 

what is coming 

my own selfish choices 

even in sleep 

there is no 

forgiveness

~ sharon brogan

january 02022

#poem