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.