Roman

Sticks and Stones and Wind and Rain

Is there no
thing any
one could
say to be
curt past
the point 
of hurt?

Are words 
truly not
sticks? Do
they not 
stick to
ribs the
way the 
heart sticks
in its cage?

A broken
mind will
always mind.

A torn person
will be shorn,
scraped by the
thorns of the
thousand missiles,

metaphor: missives,
lobbed and blobbed
and corn-on-cobbed
against the language 

barrier, a tangle harrier
than the physical cable
that supposedly counts
as the only wired harm.