By Emily Garratt

THE SOURCE TO SCAR

My eyes are haunted,

Like the living souls, buried under our wake.

Yet I do not seek to pardon,

Their melancholy state for their drifting dreams are the shadows,

that wait to live.

For somewhere alive,

Is the love of youth, yet to reminisce its memories.

That divide, this burning barrier of life.

My divide. My dream. My life.

Consumed like the ghost of years that past.

Pulse, like the thorn of love.

Seeping the poison- I am to hope,

To bury this demise,

In this land of home.