Old scars
Dead men tell no tales
but old scars do.
Each one begins in violence
then settles over time
into another forgotten one.
Scattered around out of sight
some of them, others not
really invisible, more
likely so familiar
as to be unnoticed,
almost unseen.
There are times when some flare
to life. Time heals
it is true, but
changing times, if for the worse,
can revive old weals,
as arthritis in bad weather
becomes again a curse.
I hear that old crackling creak
getting to my feet, finding the remote,
switching off the sound
of an election debate,
silencing those damned old scars
never quite gone away for good,
once and for all.
