Old scars that scream to be seen.
Feel their jagged ridges and seams,
They live in a house with no door,
Dormant for months or years-Suddenly,
the nerve to reappear without so much as an invitation.
Uneven lines, able to trek seamlessly through time.
Their demise is just a lie,
But getting by is what I do,
Pulling up off the ground when it looks like the end.
An ace of beginning again.
My collection, quite the expanse.
Not for display, only a reminder of life that transpired.
Each onslaught, ironically laying groundwork.
Vision is clarified when turned inside out.
Unbidden, these brands in my heart have worn a niche,
In the house with no door.
