Incubus

At first I see an open wound
infected and disastrous.
It breathes chaotic catastophe,
it cries to be renewed.
Its tears are the color of anger,
they dry to form a scab.
To the touch, it's stiff and resilient,
underneath, the new skin breaths.
As outwardly cliche as it may seem,
yes, something under the surface says, C'est la vie.
It is a circle, there is a plan,
dead skin will atrophy itself to start again.
Look closely at that open wound,
see past what covers the surface.