This scar is not of the physical kind.
Neither can it heal, nor can it bind.
This scar is not of the concrete clan.
It will not conform to a viable plan.
This scar has no particular odour or taste.
It's not in the blood or foul body waste.
This scar sanctifies darkness, nullifies light,
exhumes shadows, discharges night.
This scar holds a secret in an outstretched hand,
sculpted of mud, branded by rain, and etched in sand.
This scar was lit by a slow burning fuse.
It will bend you, break you, force you to choose.
This scar feeds on rumours of indelible pain,
sets off depth charges of a submersible stain.
This scar is not of the visible breed,
It is not in a book no one will read.
It does not reside in the words on the page.
This scar is a silent, simmering rage.
Lindsay Oliver lives in Leith with her cat, Parrot. She started writing two years ago and writes poetry and fiction. She has two daughters and a grandson