Scars
The scars on the outside do not nearly do enough justice to the ones underneath the flesh;
The trauma and hurting, the bruises vanished from flesh but the memory engraved -
The only thing keeping this person alive is the blood coursing through the veins, so fresh.
It's what was left, of course, of what caused the scars, of what they braved -
To have courage is one thing, but to willingly take the knife of hate is another;
A hate only demolished by love, only built by man's worst enemy - fear.
It could have been their father, sister, mother or brother,
The victim - or perhaps the culprit. It's not my place to say, who owned the falling tear,
But know this - when they thought the end was near, they were reborn.
Yet they are not remorseful, fearful, or full of scorn -
No, the scars say that but the eyes do not, and they have no glory -
The scars on the outside are only part of the story.