The Watermark

The mark of water is an empty void. It washes clean. It slips through fingers, It has no cup, leaves no trace For it is the primordial spark, the fountainhead of life, the matter and medium that's within sustaining all living things. The watermark you speak of is the scar of what lingers, after water has been and gone— the scum that clings, the salt crust and sediment grit, the shroud of dust, the mildew of memory, the rusted scourge of hope. But the mark is not made by water. for even it's echo is unblemished, innocent, untainted, leaving no fingerprints, to trace back for blame or guilt. After the touch of water departs, or the maker brands an indelible stain the aftertaste of water hardens its resolve To reassert and stake its claim, that the so-called watermark is, in truth, the scar and smear that water and time can no longer wash away.