Scar on the Cheek

The kiss on the cheek
planted swift, turns
to thorny scratch, burns
long and thin, drips

red on black dirt.
Fragile petals live a breath
away, a thin vein from death.
Roses keep distant,

far from drawn swords
ready to impale petal-skin.
Repent and attempt
to pluck stems 

of delicate short-lived beauty,
for arrangements in a vase,
that fragrance may erase
the scent of love’s demise.

But watch when red drips:
seeds bloom anew,
emit ethereal perfume, transform
into wild, vibrant, hybrid,

blood-red rose. Are you a rose?
Are you a thorn?
Or one scratched by scorn
of deceiver’s kiss?

Show me your scar.

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4 Comments

  1. For me, it’s in pain I’ve seen Him the clearest. So when pain comes, I have come to realize I’m going to have a better view of the one who loves me most. Your poem was beautiful.

    1. I resonate with that, Anne, I love how you stated that. It’s such an irony, isn’t it, that we find that view of love through pain?

  2. When my mother died suddenly from a botched operation, the scar ran deep. When they sang at her funeral that we were never promised a bed of roses, the scar still remained. When I read your poem and remembered the Lord’s forehead felt the roses’ thorns, I remember no matter how deep my scar, the Healer understands the pain and the blood-red of His sacrifice heals no matter how deep the scar.

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