Cicatrix

Accurate, an arrow to the heart,

An icon of war's sacrifice.

Don't carve into my skin

Names both fictitious.

They mean nothing to me:

A mark won't help me grow.

As before will my leaves

Heed only the seasons,

In turns growing leaves,

And leaving them detritus.

Through all this I stay alive,

And my branches rest in place;

Whether dressed in flesh,

Or bared to my skeleton.

My frame is unmoved,

By any hurt you inflict.

Though you carve into me,

Until you cut me down.

Even then I'm not given

The dignity of a burial;

But am turned into paper,

To print out the affidavits.

Tally up the score of rings,

It will always be a draw;

The boughs were once one,

Beneath where you left me marked.