Onto the nebulous faces of the young
we paste our scars, one at a time
and only sometimes deliberate
to which one they belong.
The haste of angels little known,
a trademark of the ever-spinning world,
tapping at faces as we fly by
unannounced and principally unseen.
The ones we cannot leave alone
bear more than their fair share of marks,
of pain, and yet they glow--
faces bright with the caress of God.
Jealous of these, we follow--
not to save from death, but
add more scars, and hope
perhaps will learn the nature of their luck.
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