Scars | An Original Poem

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.

A tragedy.

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.


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