Distraction

Pleasantly
sat over
my finger -
a red glob
reflecting
splintered light
here on my
punctured skin.

I never
wondered how 
it was formed,
never blamed
the needle
that planted
its sharp kiss
on taut flesh,

Never asked
what karmic
punishment
for past sins
imploded
my lofty
search for one
sacred word;
rendered null
multitude
fleeting dreams;
made it quite
difficult
to recall
a stranger’s
comely face
while my mind
got a bit
engrossed with
prickly pain.

What wild worlds
I might have
written, what
character
could have sprung,
what tall tale
might have formed
from such swift
slight instance
was made moot,
lost for good
by fate’s hard
piercing smooch.

Now I must 
convince you,
dearest ones,
expect not
much wished depth
nor yearned
eloquence.
Be content
with these words
that it bled.