The scars on my heart
Are abstract like art
There’s both pain and beauty alike
I wear my scars, proud
Let there be no doubt
Of what I stand for if just out of spite
My scars tell a story
Of chaos and glory
That I triumphed and overcame
Now here I stand
A boy turned a man
And an expert that mastered the game

Worshipping
at the altar
of self-destruction
western man enshrined

Paying false homage
to every tree
the forest
in deep decline

Losing his place
among God’s creatures
to wander
far and wide

Asking flawed questions
running in place
consensus
— ill defined

(The 1st Book Of Prayers: March, 2025)