Poem Hunter


Poem By barbara foster schutz

That little dart
you sent my way -
It pricked my heart - brought pain.
No blood was spilled,
no mark was made,
yet rigid scars remain.

An unkind word
all sheathed in silk
to mask the poisoned tip,
an artful choice
of weaponry
sprang from a smiling lip.

All innocence,
I grasped the smile;
much later felt the sting.
In agony,
the skeptic learned
what artifice can bring.

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