There it was,
the marks on his back.
The engraved symbols of a struggle to survive.
The reminder of a hand that choose to execute pain.
The inscription of words overtime
piercing pass the flesh and infecting the mind.
There it was,
the marks on his back.

As I walked the land,
I could hear its cry
and feel the quake,
the thunder and the wind
the burning
and the continued struggle
to hold to the place,
planted, yet rejected.
While written on the back
are the stripes
I refused to see.

O. Stephen Peart. 2020 © All rights reserved

Motivation for this Poem
Life is not limited to the womb. It is also not an object or a subject of our reckless will but one for serious contemplation and recognition. How we treat that which has been placed in our hands, is a point of individual accountability and responsibility. Looking away will only keep writing more stripes on the back.

Written by : admin

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  1. Nikimac Solutions October 7, 2020 at 2:51 pm - Reply

    This is a deep and profound poem, O Stephen.

    His stripes are the power that lives in me.

    I am planted not buried.
    I am comforted by the hands with scars, wounded with love for me.

    • admin October 7, 2020 at 3:41 pm - Reply

      Thank you.

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