People are always writing on his skin,
Scrawling short proverbs
And he lets them
After all, their words can do no harm

Someday, there will be no more
Unclaimed skin
And they’ll blot each other out
As they bury him
In their frantic swirls of ink

They’ll scrap and they’ll scrawl
Until he’s slipped from their minds
And he’s only a canvas
Stained with the hardships
Of passing strangers