The Color Red

Tattooed Soul

He tore at my flesh as I laid there quietly.

In that silence, so many memories flooded me.

 

Past pains surfaced, as I compared their relevance,

to the needle he pushed, deep into my skin.

 

After all, it was the scars from my start,

that put me directly in the path of his art. 

 

Despite the significance of any agony,

there had never been blood that I could see.

 

But I continued to lay there quietly,

As he ripped across the sacred body;

my silent song �" 

now, all could finally sing along.

 

No longer can I hide, the pain I feel inside.

The surface holds my suffering,

Because I chose to let him see, the spirit that makes me. 

 

But why?

 

Minutes turned to hours, hours to weeks;

Time became irrelevant, as the lesson was steep.

 

The darkness of the soul, is a place we all know.

To say: ‘it can not be, it is not a place for me’;

Is a rhyme, that holds no mystery. 

 

False sense is given to the feet;

While the ankles look straight,

the foundation has much deceit.

 

If such a person can see, the weakness

That is inherent in the human need;

Under that spell, there is no loss in suffering,

 

And on that note: 

 

He is not a dark soul; as talent of his kind,

Whispers a message that can not die.

With the wind, it circulates each century,

Allowing a choice for you and me.

Author's Note

Without my preface of 'tattooed soul' I'm uncertain if a reader would be able to understand the context. As always, a work in progress.