There’s a mark on my back.
It’s a scar,
from days gone by.
A memory,
of long-lost faith.
I run my fingers over it,
slowly going up and down
in a pattern on my skin.
I count the ripples as I count my days,
silently waiting, hoping they will end.
Weeds grow out my body,
from seeds planted by destiny.
What created an upheaval to my skin,
will do the same for my mind.
Destiny will get us all in the end.
But all that they will remember,
are days gone by,
memories long gone,
and a back, torn apart.