Marks

Does it hurt when...?

This piece speaks to me of pain, sorrow and...hope. What do you hear?

Marks
Benjamin Edgar Williams
© 2020

She once directed my life,
Set performances, in her wake.
The choices made and tendered,
All movement to bring her stake.

The place, I rised, to master,
In performing, there I view.
But memories reduced to ashes,
As presented, herself, in hue.

Trying, the chords of mother,
Not to see her name, as curse.
Unfetter the coils and tension,
That clamors my head in verse.

Ignore the marks, taped and painted,
Pathed moments to stage perform.
Choose I instead, arenas,
New audience, there be born.

Life actor, in face and form,
Tortured heart, in all still bearing.
Deep wounds, and broken soul,
Timed marks, a hope of sharing.

It changed my heart and seeing,
Bent visions and coated cries.
Marks are left, remaining fruitful,
On arms and backs, and thighs.

A child of trauma, time waiting,
A hurt to hurt the more,
Wrestled doubt to come a man,
A hurt within, his store.

When inside to find the purchase,
Colors love and find the ties.
Touch shelves of want and barren,
Missing touch, unfathomed eyes.

Out, there the people see me,
Not wonder, my face, that frown.
Try standing on marks with marks, not tearing,
A picture now, upside and down.

Now peace, she lay in silence,
The damage stilled, not done.
Her director’s marks are missing,
Yet staged and more to run.

So, what comes of beating’s victim,
The terrored and tortured soul?
How free, direct and garner,
Replace, restore the toll.