Bows and arrows rise
in blue-painted memory,
whisper secrets in a language
that no longer exists.
I am compelled to tattoo
Pictish letters on my skin,
preserve the modern heir
of a distant arsenal.
Midnight ink voices
another century,
another continent;
marks my rite of passage.
It tells the story of us:
connections and parallels
in endless equinox―
a barcode to identify me as yours.
