The scar, a map, a thunderclap, slap on the back, each buckled knee reminding me, the crack where dawn peers in to see, the day beginning with a tea, sugared well.

The scar will tell me when to go, where I've been, when I've seen the artist dab another splot of paint upon the hermit crab which sparkles, stars up in the night, each a star in its own right, each a treasure store revolving 'round some celestial shore and this is wonder in my eyes.

The scars inside may hide,
I know they're there, those false of promise and despair
and each scar tells a different tale,
each scar reminds me of another fail,
if not mine then those of time.

Father tell me if you will
who is it holds the hands of hours and why
make flowers that bloom and die,
paints me in my own mind's eye and
being mortal makes this mortal cry
when angels fly above my head?

I read my palm, they read a psalm
the ocean of my heart is calm.
I see the man in me,
they see humanity.

I give and take and for
god's sake they do the same
so
what's in any name I call?
they'll catch me if I fall and
dab me with another splot.

Eternity?
it's what I've got to figure this lot out.

Where once the ring o' roses stood, stands now a dark foreboding wood
where all but some would fear to tread,
but I've read my palm,
no harm will come to me,
I am the calm, the open sea, the willow weeps
but not I see for me
it weeps for all humanity,
nor does it discriminate or hate or love,
I cry when angels fly above my head
they read psalms instead.