There is something about betrayal,
that causes the soul to cry.
Like raw skin that rubs against itself,
scales appear
and if moved too quickly
it tears.
Gashes that bleed and
little drops of red
spill softly.
Taking it's time, one at a time,
till a pool of crimson gathers.
The pain is quiet--
never too loud, never upfront.
It drums a steady beat in the background
consistent, heavy handed, in sync with the heart.
Always there, until finally, one day
it is nothing more than a dull ache
and in time, the scars have faded
the redness has faded,
and the beat?
Can no longer be heard,
among the beautiful symphony of sounds
that is life.
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