There are lines on my arms.
Etched there for all of time.
They are words to be read.
They are a voice whispering
  in the cold of the dark.
Scars that once wept.
They are tracings of the pain
  racking me.
These lines draw a map.
To the divine redemption allowed me.
A light  pierces the pitch coloured night.
These are a reminder of the despair.
That led me to right here.
They are not pretty, but 
  they are beautiful.
My rapture.
These are the verses of a broken life.
A raspy voice of some kind of hope.
And love cuts.
Love bleeds.
Then there comes the comfort of
  the healing.
I shed the old skin.
To give breath to the new skin.
Cut wide open.
Told of in these the endless ions.
The crimson lines so deep 'neath 
  the surface.
Breathing once again.
There is hope, faith, and love 
  written on my arms.
This is my carving.
A testament of my long, 
  arduous sojourning.
With these cuts I do bleed.
Letting me breathe.
From one moment to the next.
All linked as one.
With these I lay down.
As the light washes over me.
Taking these stains.
And making them an offering.
Becoming a blessing.
These are the lines on my arms.

(Scott David Buckley-15/04/2012)

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I'd love to know what you think of this poem.