Pain

• Alison Inglis, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2004

It accumulates under the surface
And thrives on the happiness of dying flesh.
Each word causes tiny ripples beneath the skin,
Pulling tides of blood into a wave,
That washes a body until numb.
It knocks over all who stand,
Hurtling them into the growing sands of time.
The scarlet smear becomes brighter,
And scuff marks appear in the dust next to a fallen body.
Weaving among the dead,
Trails of blood streak the weary battlefield,
Binding hearts to the dirt.
Rising from the ashes of death,
The pain congregates, riding the winds,
Grasping onto the backs of the confident,
Leaping into the bodies of the tortured.