Shrapnel (Poetry)

It has burrowed deep —
worming its thin sharpness through
defenceless layers —
this tree-ring growth of love
tangled round with nerves
registering a shock each time
the fragment moves —
shifts perspective in its narrow cell
sending a sudden bolt of pain —
a reminder that this wound can never heal
but merely close —
grow over a brave skin
to hide the hurt.

There is no way to isolate —
remove this tiny dart
that kills a little with each twist and turn —
the pin that pricks
brings tears that well and burn
and nothing soothes the ache
or quells the knowledge
it is in there — time-bomb-ticking
life away.