he's a tattoo
climbing up inner walls of biceps
as though he didn't know the difference
between brick or skin,
vein or vine.
knocked over as a stool,
he's in the center of a tavern;
too publicly unknown to care,
too vehemently everything to stand up as a trunk.
he played the role
of weed.
as tattoos of a past
that wouldn't leave the surface now,
it was one too many decades of imprints in the soul
and harpoons in the side.
leaving on the upper limb,
his face was covered by a branch that only parted
when october shed itself. there he sat in vain,
waiting for the leaves,
again.
waiting for the rule to drop
of veins and vines
and history,
so everything uncovered now
would be covered
then.
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
hehee see more giggles....
