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Roads of Scars


| An entry in the Crocodile Prize Poetry Award

Like words on a blank white page
They stretch across my once clean pad
Extending upward, sideways and in random arrays
Some large, others so tiny you cannot trace
Intersecting at certain junctions
Avoiding corners and mere dead ends
Junctions of betrayal
Cross roads of pain
Drains of hurt
Potholes of depression.
Scars, people call them.

Like beauty described, skin deep are some.
A bit of skin care and they are gone.
Others cut deeper than the skin
Taking more time to heal. Eventually, they vanish too.
The deeper ones are hardest.
They are usually the most painful.
For them, size matters not. Depth outweighs all.
Attention, time and money can never fully cure them.
They are sleeping volcanoes
Triggered by flashbacks
Moved by experience
Ones you can never fully erase.

You don't know me.
I know you not.
Your scars, my scars are a hidden agenda.
Tread softly on my path,
And I'll try to on yours.
Who knows?
You may be the dagger.
I, possibly, the cat-o'nine-tails.


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Michael Dom

I like the truth in this poem, said without preaching.

I'm with you here;
"Your scars, my scars are a hidden agenda.
Tread softly on my path,
And I'll try to on yours."

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