Like a child, I sit by the window,
And I daydream. I squint to filter
Out the bright sunlight...
Motes of dust float upon
Each piercing ray...
And I am still, for once.
And focussed.
As in prayer.
I sit in contemplation,
Staring blankly at my own hands...
Again. Wondering when I was
Last truly innocent..
And I think two things:
How we cherish our
Scars. All of us.
Like some bizarre babies.
Like battered hope.
And how those scars
Are formed: isolated instants,
Which sear their lessons into
Flesh. Forever faithful.
Like lovers aren't.
-- 04/05/2011
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