Tattoo

It isn’t the pain that makes me look away, look to

the wall but through the wall at the horizon toward

where I am going  heading  falling ending what was

once started, once seen as a victory and is now simply

a life.

 

The tattoo lays on my arm where the muscle stops

and starts becomes arm from shoulder from nothing to

black ink something on under in…flesh, in me, in the

time it takes to decide to become, to surrender to

this life.

 

Why it’s there is a story too long to tell too short to

mention…always just below the skin, below the radar

below the threshold of pain that floats in my head, that

vibrates at a frequency too low but felt throughout

this life.

 

The wall stares back thinking this moment is the moment

is the split in the universe that gives insight toward

knowing and not knowing wondering which is which…is

the point of being seeing believing achieving anything in

a life.

 

No answers asked for…none given none taken, the answers are

where I look for them, where I find them where they are born and

die but are never more than what I make them and I

make them with insignificant fury toward shaping moving creating

my life.

 

What is a tattoo but a mark where time occurred where moments

left a meaningful stain, a pattern on skin on cells on memories on and on and

on the tip of my own personal history’s tongue waiting to be sung

around mental bonfires on beaches of sad glory in memoriam of

this life.

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