Scars carved by demons in my brow
Show the devil to be an artist.
The cut, the flap, the unstitched wound
All heal as if by attentive fingers.

Skin smoothes and pigment normalizes
But the wound—deeper than dermis—
Continues to fester and skirmish with
A Reason that explains “By Accident.”

They are tireless wings
That beat no retreat
And do not stop for sleep—sleep that might be theirs,
Or sleep that should be mine.

They flap about and fling their prayers,
At my too-attentive ears,
At my too-retentive head,
At my too-demented thoughts,
At my too-lamented soul.