Broken Window

Outside looking in
is not what I thought
it would be –
a pale reflection
ghosts still alive
silently haunting me.
Shards of glass
betray my secrets,
pieces of my soul;
words unuttered
abused and misplaced
forgetting what they hold.
I see what passes
for time before me,
on whisper-thin thread,
and through the window
looking out, see
the spirit that’s been bled.


Not with shame
do I bear my scars
nor with pride
are they worn –
each was earned
on its own field
and I owe them
what I’ve sworn.
Some long faded
still ache at times,
less of the flesh
and more in the soul;
those the deepest
were wrought in the storms
between you and I
and remind me I am old.
Those on the surface
betray the secrets
so carefully hidden
beneath the skin;
they crack and they bleed
and echo the cries
of a thousand nightmares
mirroring my sins.
My scars I’ll keep
to remember me by
as I wither
and my spirit fades;
I wear them with joy
at having lived
and loved,
thankful for the pain.