Strange Forges

My mother taught me
to never let them see you sweat.

To never leave your blood on the table.
To discretely hide your scars so effectively

they became invisible, a strategy that worked
for the first fifty years until

there was no place to hide any longer, until
you were more scar than man

and your pain became a sideshow
with the carney barkers shouting to the rubes:

“Come see how the mighty have fallen! Come see
the living dead in their last days.”

drawing a crowd who looked on, not in horror,
but compassion, who saw in you, themselves

and wrapped their wounded arms around your almost corpse
and kept you warm when your heart felt cold.

And so today, you may see me sweat. You may see me bleed.
Not for the audience, or the horror or the spectacle,

but because I have finally learned wounds not only hurt,
they heal.

About this poem. 

Why share pain? For pity? For Drama? For (fill in your thoughts here.)?

We share pain because it heals. It heals us, and at times, it heals others as well, giving the pain purpose.

The picture was taken at the Shelbourne Museum.

Tom