my every thought
in seconds slips away,
my mind's a drain,
all of my habits
are ingrained
into my muscles
not my brain—
each inch of flesh
has in it etched
sigils that mesh
but do not match
any known script—
not ogham, runes,
cuneiform;
not greek, nor arabic—
there's no translation
for this language;
there's no removing
of these lines;
they were not written
on my skin—no,
i was born
already marked,
tattoos stark,
stained so dark
they'll never fade,
even many years away,
when those words made
by man elude
i'll still have truth
engraved on me
