THE OLYMPICS OF SCARS

To What do I liken the Olympics of scars,
Daily game written by the scribes of life.
Where everyone wins or whines.

A goat beget a kid.
Happy and prancing on the hills,
A day and the next, a leg broken we see.
Scars of a goat, a tale unfolding.

Some scars we wear with pride.
The price of motherhood
The hour glass anatomy of a woman,
Irresistible in the embrace of a bikini,
Shaped like the polished cornerstones of a royal palace,
Traded away for roundness and plumpness,
incomparable reward and joy of motherhood.

The curious and mischievous may ask?
What happened to the twin hills that delighted mankind?
From whence the best wine of love is dispensed,
Beautiful clusters of grapes,
The boughs from which one climbs to the summit of ecstasy.
Their labor of intense emotion I can’t disregard,

Man and child the milk of love and life drank,
Pinched, bitten and sucked by tender love,
Their job done with honors,
Now due south they stare,
Hanging with the scars of satisfaction and fulfillment .

For the youth, the ancient their lives sowed,
That the youth may have more more,
A journey of hope that ended as a mirage.
The bloom of youth began,
Their hearts and love to digital apples and berries they gave,
To ‘homes’ the ancient were sent.
Where they are given a love or two by prescription.
Instead from drinking love from the heart of gratitude.

I chanced upon an aged saint
Scars all over to behold,
From whence did thou get this scars?
From my friends and lovers He said.
Who art thou Ancient One,
I am Jesus Christ Glorified,
The one whom His own knew Him not.
Oh my scars, it’s sunset again,
To go now I must, For tomorrow draweth nigh.
Another Olympics I must prepare.
Where everyone whines or wins. Selah.
Ovie Dixon. Copyright 2015.