Listen to poem:
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.
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