Scarring Atlas

I stare out at the sea, pallid peacoat draping dripping frame,
A breeze comes knocking back, almost stealing it away.
I slipped out of the sleeves as I watched a rolling boulder.
Too hot, I shrug �" let it fly away on knocking breeze.

The tide rolled in at beck of moon, as ocean kissed my face.
Salt, and blood, and pain beget, all left their acrid tastes.
Rolling pants, removing shirt - Anguished, I wade on in.
The skin in brine, this skin all mine, is scarred from deep within.

I stride deeper into ocean. Deeper into  dark.
To swim for miles;
Forgotten Isles. Beseech, and meet my mark.

With hope I’ve rushed to land. In hopes it’s what I wanted.
But crags and rocks and stone and sand have only left me gaunt.
Veer port, I’ve swept the past. Starboard, I’ll built new arcs.
But the scars of men in charge, have left crude road-maps to my heart.

And if you follow the paths - byways, highways, and channels -
You’ll come across besieged bulwarks, housing a smold’ring ember.
Straining to breathe and burn - surround it, debris and soot.
It will go out, as all it takes, is one smothering foot.

And that is what propels me. A hint of warmth and light.
Seeking wood, and coal, and fuel
I strive to make it bright
So will burn down all the bulwarks. It will burn down all my loves.
It will burn down old-growth forests, setting flame to wand’ring doves.
The heat will be severe.
No plant will ever grow.
But they will learn not to touch.
No more scars and no more holes.
But in this, there’s one I fear, the one I fear the most.
And in my ears, this much I hear

“No more scars means making ghosts.”