Sonnet #3

Your fingers press gently against my skin
and brush away the bold color that bleeds
from the scar that you are etching within
my body forever; from the needle
into my skin rushes the viscous ink.
First touch I’ve given my canvas to you;
my skin meets the needle in perfect sync
with the river of black ink pulsing through
the dermis. The figure slowly takes shape
under the artful needle’s steady hum.
With each stroke on this physical landscape
now a further canvas my skin becomes.
A masterpiece, once merely a figment,
becomes eternal in liquid pigment.

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