The Healer's Art

I wander through space

In an uncertain time,

I look at you and I try to trace

—the lines—

Face, waist, arms.

The heart is a fragile and curious thing

As one grows, another fails.

I was not practiced in the healer’s art,

Or so I supposed.

Yet over and over

I found myself acting the very part;

I was trying to heal another’s heart.

And as I went along in life,

I was able to help, to heal,

To feel, to hope, and to alleviate strife.

But always there was something left

A little mark, curiously small

Kept safely on my heart.

I did not choose this path,

Given the choice not many would,

Yet I could.

So, as I wandered down this path,

The one less traveled by,

I stood tall

And helped the fallen.

And in each case

I healed their hearts,

The goal reached, point and case.

Or so I thought.

Although try as I may,

I could not conceal

Mine own wounds, mine own marks.

Words echoed in my ears:

“I cannot forget you, for ye are graven upon my palms”

I, but a small portion have felt

Of what those few lines entail.

He did not ask, He did not cry,

Never once did He exclaim, “Not me, not I”

And nor shall I.

One man knew it all,

Although His friends did refute, retract and rebuke

He stood tall.

And so shall I.

I know your marks, so long and dark.

But they have faded since we first met

And now they are but a whisper in time,

As a long forgotten past.

But they are still with me,

For I cannot forget.

He that practices this peculiar art,

That of healing hearts,

Must follow in the footsteps of his Master.

You are not graven on my palms,

Rather you are graven,

And you are the marks

Safely kept on my heart.

After all this is the Healer’s art.

Love,

The one walking beside you