The Mark and My Scars

Right here on my chest, Lies a mark I didn’t intend to make but it’s visible like a crest, A cut made so deep to torture my body for entangling in a mess, A great soul smitten and scourged, nothing less, Borne onward by slow-footed time, from my hand, the gold it did wrest. Amid the direful calamities of the time, loss and distress, An almost pathetic appearance of ephemeral fragility that’s very hard to buttress, The scars, now all over me, reminding me I got no peace, Because I’m broken even as I pen down this piece, A perfectly articulated echo and amplified tempo of my real stress. The thought hit me! Why are my trying to live if I’m just living to die? But seeing these scars helps me understand that reality don’t lie, Now dearth couldn’t dwarf my ambitions, As I break away from the shackles of perditions, Marching down to posterity with divine honors round my neck like a tie. Many believe I have already won the war between good and bad, While I am still alive, I shouldn’t be sad, But straight on my chest lays a scar of survival and torture, A mark I made for memory’s sake and the future, The only evidence I ever had. An Stewart Annie Everestus's poem © 2019