I have no tattoos,
no Chinese pictographs
no Latin phrases
no Celtic knots, crosses, or faces
no guardian animal spirit.
I do not claim this as a virtue.
Unmarked, and unremarkable,
sheep-like, and all blent in.
I like to imagine I'd be dark
with frightening ink,
if I thought I'd still care
about the same things
next week.
I make no commitments I might regret,
leaving me with this one regret,
watching people with the conviction needed
to commit their body to an image,
write poetry by walking.
I like to imagine I am on a quest
for a holy word, so true
I could sit still
as it burned itself
into my skin.
I have to wonder,
are those words really that hidden?
Isn't love enough
or hope or, courage?
What am I waiting for?
This then is my ink.
Look at the intricate tracery.
Let me explain to you the meaning of
each absent line.
This curve,
fear of shame and regret.
These symbols,
freedom, to jump on the next bandwagon.
This face,
the silent sleeping of an unmarked soul.