Broken. Not Broken

You would not recognize me now.
I am less broken,
more restored,
strangely stronger for my ordeal,
reborn from my journey to hell.
I have more wrinkles,
less hair,
far more smiles,
far more grace.

You would not recognize me now,
comfortable in my simplicity,
comfortable in my skin,
in the loss and the understanding
that all can be lost
forever,
and rise again like some lurid relentless spring,
flowers and more flowers
from the black compost of waste,
of things thrown away.

You would not recognize me now.
Perhaps it is the scars, no longer hidden
but worn like medals or ceremonial jewels,
scars of survival, of blood let like rivers,
the devil’s arrows doing God’s work,
making me stronger even in my torn, aging skin.
You would not know me, this creation of your cruelty
that has forgotten how to cringe,
learned how to walk,
and better,
to fly.

About this poem

I live in a world of the broken. Of the battered, bullied and belittled. And when they rise again, my joy rises with them, for I have lived, and died, and live again. I know their pain, and can rejoice, do rejoice, in their flight.

It is my greatest, truly my greatest, joy.

Tom