Sometimes the weals of pain remain
Though they show not on the skin
And the tears that wish to burst forth too
Are forced to dry within.
Strange indeed, are the wounds,
The pen and the careless spoken word can dole
Strange the way they hurt not a hair
Yet, cut deep into the soul.
Care not of the pain, my friends, they say,
And leave it all to time and sleep
But friends life is far too short
And the wounds alas are far too deep.
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