Scarr’d

Standard

sometimes I itch

inside

below the surface

skin hides

the hound’s claw and

his bite

marks that make me

grip tight

beholding bleakly

this night

which numbs my sense of

riptide

set to drown my

insight

to the wrong and what

is right

buried in simple

bliss like

autumn acorns

 

but they are mine and

who knows

what kind of when its

bloom grows

where once it flowered

blue rose

and why it cowered

dew shows

how light still glistens

truth glows

upon these etchings

few chose

but many gained from

doom throes

that did not pay their

due though

it left its marks cut

through bone

reminding me

 

I know you not who

left me

caught and caged and

bled three

years of living

deadly

and like to fall with

red feet

and bloody hands that

fret we

let them in our

heads clean

and sober until

set free

by hands that loved and

blessed He

cleansed my hands and

kept me

from forgetting

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