There’s a story on her arm, weathered and worn
A story never to be rewritten, always to be retold
Black ink stands stark against pale skin
Waiting like an open canvas for life to spill
To brighten the day, she adds a colored feather
Details will happen, they unravel as she goes
The wordless stories crawl up her thin arms
And wrap around her neck to create a necklace of thorns
A devil on her shoulder, a friend on her back
The angel is missing, empty silhouette outlined in black
Quoted Plato round her ankle, Frost lingers on her hip
Her body is her temple, her only place of worship
Her temple to create and her temple to destroy
A temple of enlightenment, a temple of unknowns
Painted pictures, lightly freckled, stain upon stain
Plump, young and tender, yet unaffected by the pain
There are stories on her body and stories in her soul
Stories never to be rewritten, but always to be stored.