Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Our scars will be singing

Our scars
the places,
textured and smooth,
the places rubbed on the world
too soon, too fast and too hard.

Our scars,
never voiceless,
urgent with longing,
bitter at silence,
surprised by rare peace.

Our innocence nearby,
before we had wounds,
upright and real,
stands in ranks with our warrior,
pretending no fear,
and ourselves for the ages,
oracular and wise.

Choir of us,
shaking rust from our voices,
adding rhythm and tune,
giving shape to the music
we soon will be singing.

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