The Canvas My body lies open to the art of the one. Who touches me only before the sun. He weaves his wand across my skin. And leaves my body marked in sin. But it will all be turned to ash. In the funeral flame gone with a flash. His art will be no more. A bygone thing of loreFor now I look and see the tale. Upon my skin a story tell. Of what has past and what will come. He places each as should be done. He knows the meaning of each tat. He alone can make it that. The tat may fade as life does too. But he will give each arts it’s due.christy