Sacred Scars
The face opposing mine is stern---
an expressionless ambivalence;
only silence in response.
For how may this cold etched countenance
satisfy …
the timeless search for warmth?
‘Tis Socrates, the Master, whose face in blocks
of lime—
adds to the cold futility of wanting life from
such a fleshless stare.
But the words of sensitivity,
Truths profound but oh, so simple….
Speak from stone lips to all who gaze in
silent reverence.
A questioning look reveals the face
where shocking colors cascade the stern,
face in tears of red and blue.
A defiant act of defacement; of chemicals of
color—so warm in hue, yet not to soften
the cold gaze.
An indignant anger brings a flush to the flesh
of my face—
but in only a moment, the sharply etched
meanings of the words bathed in colorful
tears do not prohibit…
The warmth and humanity and gratitude to swell
up from inside me.
I feel that warmth is stirred in us to find
meaning to the words underneath the scarring.
In hushed vague meaning, they beckon.
The words unchanged, but harder to see—
give powerful meaning to the
cold truths etched in the lime.
It’s the “light of day” from lips of stone,
that bring the light of the spirit
to
lifeless lime.
Copyright © September 1989 Amy L. Allison
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