Scars

This and this no more will change
to a wound no more, blood no more
trailing across as though mocking
life, ebbing out fresh and clean,
to chasten said mishap.

It's another way of saying you were
right to know it was sharp, this part
of life that revolves around fast fires,
scalding wood, daring to burn the
conscience and fight it as before.

Now to arms, to water flowing up
rafters, jettison life out widows, doors,
escaping its wrath to below, scaling down
skyscrapers of steel, slippery to the touch,
sliding to dare again of death.

Yet it survives, the mind of healing,
barely the wind laps at frozen flames
dancing up scaffolds, frames meant for
quiet nights, comforting, nursing young
lives untouched by death.

© 2015 Larry Ingram