Credit: wikipedia painting by Edvard Munch, National Gallery, Norway

Credit wikipedia
painting by Edvard Munch, National Gallery, Norway

Childhood traumas never really heal. Scars are only a superficial covering for something lying stirring beneath. They assume shapes and forms which become an integral part of our psyche and return to haunt us. We become our scars, are shaped and transformed by them. But life is full of healing herbs that then transform the transformation. There is always another dawn after a dark night. The roller coaster of life has as many highs as it has lows. After diving deep we soar. And in both, the soul of our being learns its best lessons.

My poem on such a scar:

S C A R

I still have that scar,
Folded by time
Healed and sealed.

But the thought
Remains tender
On the edge of a razor

And unabated blood
Flows from my childhood finger,
Haemophilic,

As perfumed mystics and astrologers,
Ghostly trains and bitter mixtures,
Loveless governesses, tonsils and tincture
Begin to haemorrhage again.

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