Our skin is like a canvass,
Etched upon by the lines of age.
Its tale is told by the scars that unfold.
Some made of sorrow,
Some born of rage.
An unturned page, ripped and unsold,
Tossed into the fiery blaze.

At least it kept us warm.
For the winter was rough,
The land cracked and torn.
The trees lay barren,
Bark scorched, for ever more.

Turn the page and start anew!
Yet still the scars remain.
We look ourselves, for now at least,
Though we will never be the same.

The smile beneath the shadow
Of our eyes, anointed red,
Can never belie what we have endured.
The hopelessness of being burned
From a trial by fires warming allure.

So although the flesh may falter,
No longer to be found anew,
Our eyes shall burn with a fiery purpose.
Till the day life's debt is due.