The Language

Like scratches of the mad prisoner,

The symbols take shape.

Emergence…

Whispering like ghosts,

My ears only hear,

Their maddening consistency.

Beginning…

Pressing forward out my eyes,

Soft black tears,

Dripping downward.

Then…

Running down my arm,

The ink creeps forward,

Towards its destiny.

Form…

It splashes onto the moth

As colorful as its wings may be,

Black ink still stains,

Keeping forever echoes.

Tattoos of transformation,

Touching timidly

Until,

At Last…