I have no tattoos, no Chinese pictographs no Latin phrases no Celtic knots, crosses, or faces no guardian animal spirit. I do not claim this as a virtue. Unmarked, and unremarkable, sheep-like, and all blent in. I like to imagine I'd be dark with frightening ink, if I thought I'd still care about the same things next week. I make no commitments I might regret, leaving me with this one regret, watching people with the conviction needed to commit their body to an image, write poetry by walking. I like to imagine I am on a quest for a holy word, so true I could sit still as it burned itself into my skin. I have to wonder, are those words really that hidden? Isn't love enough or hope or, courage? What am I waiting for? This then is my ink. Look at the intricate tracery. Let me explain to you the meaning of each absent line. This curve, fear of shame and regret. These symbols, freedom, to jump on the next bandwagon. This face, the silent sleeping of an unmarked soul.