the tribe is tired
the hides are dry
it’s time to pick
a name
for the scribe

upon a skin
is written in dye
above the neck
her inscriptions eye
a reminder
to thyself be true
a beginning
of the Me that’s You

“… write for me…”
he whispered
“… be a sight for me…”
in the rift of her lips

lingering long in song
and upon a mind….
too kind
to be wrong
a blind man
“… and when he came along…”

before in one eye
and before I could see…
as he spoke
about the pain
around the glory

it became her cry
the gentle in nature
“… and it was written
that I died…”

and for a while
she could only
… listen

not to miss a word
and not just a cord
of this living bard
and not just for
a moment either
neither would she

let go of this
so very

“… fading…”
into the tapestry
there rode a man
who was fantasy

and I waved
for what he became
is the Us … in my reality

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