On The Body (Signs Of The Flesh)

On the body (signs of the flesh)

On the body, a thousand square inches,

Enough to cover a land,

On which many soulsmay live.

But under this land

Lives

Just one

Soul.

One Heart, One Beat

After another.

A story written on the skin,

And written in time.

Shaped not so much by sun

And sky,

But by life lived,

By truth,

By lie.

To trace the story is to follow,

A path perhaps from beginning

And perhaps from end.

Backwards and forwards,

And circles and circles, again and again.

Each caress can reveal but more truths,

More limits to test.

The body contains a soul but one,

Except on rare occasion,

Where such a tracing of stories,

Another began.

And what of body then?

Shielded, protected.

And what of beauty then?

Distended, reflective.

In twelve and twelve,

And twelve and twelve again.

Until numbers have no meaning,

And only the sense remains.

Of self,

Of self plus one,

And one.

And of heat, and of cold,

And rising, falling, rising again.

Of hunger and need,

Of yet-to-be-sated longing.

A map of terrain familiar, yet not,

And map it out, by natures demands

Must.