The thing about scars is the fear of compromise: one doubt is a million-year fossil that cannot be traced by carbon dating. It is in the era of extinction—gone but never gone. In a modern land Of petroleum, extracted skin, poached coats, My blood upon the cheeks of every missed chance of living. I excavate and it remains hidden. I bury my nearly decapitated legs and million-year-old burdens And see as it never rises. The thing about scars is they made you believe time is a friend, But a friend is a foe. Pain is a never-ending story that goes through the decades, centuries, Millennia. And scars are a branch of the strongest trees. A limitless sojourn of lost, and in every place they wander, the fire is cold. Only to find out you are nothing but an extracted oil to be studied by hungry men.
"Comfort mostly lies in the depth of the words written."