scar

Dark swirling the living dregs.
The dead of the day.
Swelling maturity smothered the breath right out.
Swallowing veins of scrutiny.
Lost on social equity.
The humble rumblings of another lost soul,
Finding themselves in a spinning tempest of civility.
Born from desperation.
Carried on the backs of entire generations.
Hope for life.
Hope for beauty.
Hope for love.
Hope for tomorrow
Hope for a handle on the moment.
It never comes to those who look.
And those who own find no use for the grip.
Having, already, the satisfaction.
A state of perpetual pity and remorse.
The sores of tomorrow form the more painful scars of today.
Scars that we only feel when the weather is as forelorned as we.
The ugly blemish in the community of perfect cells.