Isn’t there something so profound about a scar?
To the creative mind it is a mark full of promise,
Its knotted length bloated with symbolism and meanings.
An enduring sign of infinity,
Remaining beyond the stretch of memory.
Every person has a scar someplace,
Most of us more than one, I would guess.
As for myself, I lost count after eighty.
There is one on my wrist from a chain link fence.
A shiny white patch gleams on my calf,
A memento of the dreaded chicken pox.
As for the countless more, they tell of nothing
Except that I am a klutz.
All but the one;
A shallow line on my cheek
That heralds of something much more.
Brought on not by a tripping of feet
But by the terrible thirst of a man.
I will not say
For I’m sure you can imagine
What comes of a man, a small girl, and a knife.
With the blade on my cheek
He partook of his wants
And it was never spoken of again.
He went his way with something I could not regain,
And I went mine with my scar.
Oh what a glorious thing, a scar;
So ripe with colorful metaphors.
The tribute to eternity that always reminds
Of which the mind wishes it had forgotten.