Scars

Our surface etchings…

Whether by deed,
Word,
Or thought,
Wounds start open,
Their scars knowing patience,
Art rendered of the dreaded kind.

How quiet the disfiguring moves,
Skin's tenacity ever protective,
Even as tissue of smiles eventually
Becomes but canyon topography of times past.

And then...

A day finally arrives.
Scars begin to shrivel.
Age becomes its own embrace,
The earned chameleon friendship,
A cycle complete,
The rebirth of crying,
The wrinkled baby awaiting protection.

This time,
With the long sleep
Poised at the threshold,
Where awakening
Remains unnecessary.

Aging platelets shift,
Taking their time,
Knowing we wait,
Uplifting sorrows once buried,
Making molten the flow,
Once contained and hardened.

As eyelids close,
Smile muscles mix with sadness.
Like a baby’s first cry from the womb,
One's final breath once again finds
Life’s short resonance is still a part of infinity’s bliss.