Scarred is he who wants the world
But looks on in anguish
at the pain and suffering,
of others,
pining over his own scars.

His scars are healed, though still
scars.

Wounds of the world wound the heart,
Wrench at the soul,
but those are wounds that don’t
leave such visible scars.
those scars
deep within
deep inside
where no-one else goes
and he goes there rarely,
perhaps finding that far place
too close for comfort.

He would rather distance himself
a safe distance
a real distance where
the scars can’t be felt
or seen or heard,
though they remain.

He would rather split atoms,
and talk of treasures and
want and want and want
and do all his unscarred
morality allows.

And scars are always there.
He is always there,
but never feels anything.

he is lost.
he is scarred.