Sometimes, quite times
The swinging pendulum
and rivers running
Blood rushing
Under the skin, growing hard
Rough. Marked. Tough scars.
These are the life lines
We write about, talk about
Show others, one another
The life lines
Of time, ticking time
Ticking by.
A story, known only
By the bearer, the wearer
The perfect thing,
Before the first years
Perfect skin
Soft, gentle
A trip, a stumble,
A cut, a burn
We accept, unchangeable
This harsh contrast
And there comes the pain
Onto oneself, or
A gift from another
Received
Always remembered
When it marks,
Perfect skin, now only
A perfect memory
We remember the way
It used to be, before
the line was made
The swinging pendulum
And the rushing river, crossed
Sometimes, quiet times
We think of all we’ve lost.