A pilgrim’s tattoo, marking the embers of faith,
Marking where the cross become a muttered word,
And her kiss burned a sacrifice.
A woman may know, or is too divine for love,
Or keeps the shepherdess veil closed to all,
And sees only god’s face in the water.
Outside the city, where prophets roared,
And the words drew blood and milk and honey,
I walk the path to her.
What does the penatent offer to the prideless?
What does prayers offer to the contentedly concealed?
What words can I make for her?
The tattoo itches and burns, light perdition and salvation,
And I know not these hills and her home with the lost,
But I only seek what isn’t seen or found.