Salt those wounds until well done

Salted wounds,
Pickle,
Fester well
When carefully nurtured
With
Cupfuls of neglect
Spoonfuls of arrogance
Fistfuls of cluelessness
About the responsibility of
Walking in another's shoes
However old and worn out.

Yet when the job is well done
The stench of sadness
Maybe yours to own
But it becomes mine to keep.


(C)