There is an itch beyond you,
self-consuming, dying to release.
Give in, give in to scratching
that which is yours to manifest.
Some will tell you that there
is only this dust to dust oblivion.
You know different now, for keen
memory of life’s repetitive missions
is ever present. You are an ancient
whaler, skilled in scrimshaw as you dip
your engraving tool in blue pigment.
Go on, go on let your own bones be
the everlasting storyteller.