“This too shall pass.”
Meshworks of causes,
reasons and justifications
that cover up the open wounds.
Those are called scars.
And they say,
"This, too, shall pass."
Often, it does. It does pass.
But there is that casual footprint in the sand,
with some depth, left behind to remind you,
you have been walked over.
There are those fingerprints
all over your heart to remind you,
your heart had been handled, juggled with.
Then there are the little fireflies
that circle the only light in your soul,
reminding you how dark it is
without this little chaos of attracted insects
that arrive to light up your world fleetingly.
And then, there are scars —
those that remain,
take losses to a new level.
Those that etch pain on papers
and translate it into readable, forgettable words.
Scars with a rhythm.
Those are my kind of scars.
Scars that adorn the soul.
© Sana Rose 2020
This was originally written as prose and is an excerpt from my second novel ‘The Storyteller’, psychological fiction, which is under evaluation by publishers.