Scar Tissue

The cicatrix left by love

Curls in branchy outward shapes,

With old venom pulsing still.

Scientific excursions,

With the surgical steel deep

In the left-side scapula,

Have excavated further

Down. Precise dips are planned

Like the surgical ballet

Of the blade. Sleep is coming,

A controlled refrain. Numbed, I

Sink into the deep of dreams.

Like a blade, the haunting tune

At the edge of memory

Weaves an intricate pattern

Through the circuits now severed.

Apathy is remembered

As bliss. As a lack of pain.