This scar is not of the physical kind.
Neither can it heal, nor can it bind.
This scar is not of the concrete clan.
It will not conform to a viable plan.
This scar has no particular odour or taste.
It’s not in the blood or foul body waste.
This scar sanctifies darkness, nullifies light,
exhumes shadows, discharges night.
This scar holds a secret in an outstretched hand,
sculpted of mud, branded by rain, and etched in sand.
This scar was lit by a slow burning fuse.
It will bend you, break you, force you to choose.
This scar feeds on rumours of indelible pain,
sets off depth charges of a submersible stain.
This scar is not of the visible breed,
It is not in a book that no one will read.
It does not reside in the words on the page.
This scar is a silent, simmering rage.
1. ‘This Scar’ appeared in Poetry 24 an online poetry journal focused on poetry and current affairs (found here) and will appear in the anthology MS: My Story
[c] 2015-[y] Lindsay Oliver