Tattooed by time,
crooked lines weave
daily reminders
of follies endured.
A compound, compressed
skull fracture winds
a 7 inch jagged track,
under 14 inches of hair.
Abdominal scars obliterate
what was once a naval,
leaving only an asterick.
A burn mark stretches
like a caterpillar,
across my forearm,
its pale white squiggle,
stark against tanned flesh.
Scars are the
cliff notes of our lives,
abbreviated lines that
bookmark the rendering
of our very mortality.
Like a bad tattoo
unerasable and haunting
they remain until
we are remains,
only then does time remove
all traces of what was
an imperfect blemish
long past oblivion.
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