If I open up my palms and look,
I can imagine the growth of mountains.
Rising from the callouses on my hands,
And in my palms? pretty little fountains.
If I look upon my arm I see,
A raven that could take flight.
Yet it is simply ink upon my skin,
and it will not fly this night.
If I look upon my shoulders,
There are tribal things I don't understand.
Yes I chose these things upon my skin
but I am just a man.
Some lost and forgotten tribe,
Will know what those symbols bring.
Perhaps a path to some sort of heaven,
Or perhaps evil they will bring.
Yet every thing I think and imagine
In some way does come true.
Either by acts or by my omissions,
You cannot run away from you!
If the markings on my skin and torso,
and I do include the scars,
are the property of God or satan,
Then I guess you think that I am yours.
I'd like to think I've done lots of good,
And not so many things so bad,
But I do not seek forgiving.
For that I've already had.
So I'll keep this fire burning,
for this feeling makes me thrive.
The little one that can fell me with a word
Or perhaps just make me feel alive.
So the mountains that I build or destroy,
Perhaps that gift you think you give?
The pools within my palms.
Have surely love to give.
Despite my imagination firing,
Despite all I know to be true.
My heart belongs to one alone
And it is neither of you.
