Worn Leather

Buckets of rain can’t wash it away

Nor soap, nor sponge, nor scrub

Skin rubbed raw but the film won’t dissolve

Worn leather

Conditioned yet tough

Years of suffering in each crack

Part of the hide but foreign all the same

A second skin

Manageable until it reaches inside

When callousness invades the heart


Author: Arsenio Franklin

Writer & depressed house husband.

One thought on “Worn Leather”

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