scars

Scars turn sacred, in this candlelight vigil,
In the sound of one hand clapping echoing in the stars,
In twilight of beginnings and endings,
Things I could almost do, like climb the blue bird angel,
but first had to come to be, dark enough to risk sharing in light enough to meet face to face with lenses where shapes and symbols turn upside down and inside out,
Are neither here nor there,
When my world doesn’t seem right,
No place to hide in immeasurable scars,
In haunted flowers, with shadows as long as their karma,

These scars blossom and sing of things that could almost be true,
What is and what shall never be the end,
I thought they were telling me about how I know myself,
Now they tell me of how I know others,
At bus stops and train stations,
Department store restrooms,
Checkout lines and freeways,
Places where humanity shows its secrets,
Not so much in the sound.
But the consistency
Not so much in the wound,
But in the carrying,

Scars held in the tension of remembering my dreams,
And a fear of not being able to touch the places marked by an X
Places behind my back,
so many I can’t keep track,
In market places of perspectives, where I don’t see faces, only truth,
But I am not ready for their messages,
These reddened lenses only read black and white,

In the matriculation of resistance, opinions known only by their density,
My scars come back as hungry ghosts,
I gather the flash shot depravities with the gentle wind of a long clear silent night,
And their whiplash language settles to the bottom of my tight wishes,
The fish there begin to sing to them,
And a new sea is born,
The wheel is empty,
And there is no trace of a gate,
My scars are part of me now and we tell the story together.