Trails

Your skin is far more powerful than you think you know

Trust the skin you live in.
For it is the only thing you will ever have to keep.
The skin that expands throughout your universal body,
Hold far more than you think you know.

Hidden messages and in-scripts,
Forgotten languages and deteriorated truths,
Drawn intricately on each occupied space
On the vast surface of the horizon that hold up your insides together.

We are made of art, you see.
Bodies; God's art.
Sculptures of moving flesh and bone,
Wrapped in expandable sheets of stellar and stone.
Inscribed with the artist's descrete hidden messages that he,
Will only ever truly know.
Stitched into manuscripts left to stain.
Past, present, future,
All in vain.

Every violet bruise,
Every plush rash,
Every blister of paint,
Mounted on the canvas of your skin;
Signify the struggle of an empty present and a solid past.

The body; a map.
Congested rails and roads,
That determine the unknown.
Each trail,
Leading north, of a lost path.
West, of unwilling contemporaries.
South, of new journeys yet to be scribbled.
Starting at the tips of it all.

Into your palms, look,
The strokes of prints drawn just for you.
The particles of sadness and happiness mixed to neutralize your fate.

Fate? Neutrilized?
Can you ask a bird to calm its wings?
A waterfall not to fall?
A runner not to run?
Lovers not to love?

Inevitable. Bound to happen.
Ready for the crash and burn read between the script of your fussy palms.

Tragic fates and hurtful lies.
Heartbreaks and ending ties.
Come together, we all will die.
No one tells it better,
Than you and I.

Go ahead fly, fly.
The future is yours.
Your palms, an artwork stretched out to plead its artist.
Profoundly laced and locked with inescapable chances.
Your body, a masterpiece that differs from each artwork of the same intentions.
Every masterpiece, withholds stories etched upon it.
Stories on your skin, just for you.
Differing shapes, sizes, colors, scars, fates, life.
Collected by the internal veneer of the soul.

Your skin, read like brail to the blind with only the mere brush of the fingertips,
Galaxies of life forms, form among it.
Trails that lead to your destiny, Read from left to right.
Threaded onto your skin,
Sewn together so collectively.
Far more powerful than any garment Chanel could ever make.
God has powerful hands,
That give powerful fate.

Mysteries of the past, present and future.
If past is a past why haven't we let it pass and leave?
If present is a present why aren't we living it to every waking moment?
If future is a future why does it start with an Fu?

You have been raised by the gift of life.
Worrying too much of the future,
That you have forgotten existence at night.

Your skin, still bare,
Still new.
Uncorrupted by the plagued gift of life.
Your story has yet to write on the one big page that keep your insides together.
Manuscripts that begin,
When you start living.
Now start living before you become
None.