To Crave The Darkness

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.”

But Fortune will not answer the charge.
Consequence of coincidence fails to darken,
To shade the shadow of cognition of guilt.
It looms above the head
In the head,
On the head.

Reason, failing, seeks another course.
“Well, you could be dead.”—a flimsy
Rationale that could apply any day.
But this is not just any day.

This is the day the skin smoothes,
But the mood lags, doomed to drift in the rift
Created by Reason’s inability to touch,
To bridge, to understand, to contact Chance.

Chance will not be papered, be booked, be read.
Reason must fight (like the devil) only to lose.
Lose Heart.  Loose Mind.    Loosen Will.
But save face—a scarred, wounded face
But face a face.