Z: Growth

Warm-wet steel or electricity
followed by the fingertips of self reflection,
the frost glass light of summer
or a harsh winter bulb
for the eyes to see the battle.
The aftermath of every cut,
falls into stream or pool
till gravity's rush
removes it from the fray.

The reaper strives for smooth,
recaptures youth perhaps
or states a temporary honesty,
nothing hidden.
But only hours later
it creeps into life again,
catches sight in a pane's flicker
claws at a passing hand,
sounds a premature reveille.

Some let it have its way,
let it store the fragments
of parties, pillows, partners.
Some half-tame it,
drawing lines with it,
smothering scars,
distinguishing features.

Vanity turns to comfort in time,
some with, some without.