Upon the canvas of tender skin,
The needle dances, begins the tale,
A whisper of ink, a silent hymn,
In hues that linger, bold and pale.

Each mark a memory, etched in time,
A journey mapped in lines and shades,
Stories told in silent rhyme,
On this living page that never fades.

Colors swirl in vibrant streams,
Tales of love, of loss, of dreams,
In every curve, a story beams,
A testament to life’s extremes.

Beneath the surface, secrets lie,
In every stroke, a hidden cry,
A tapestry where heartbeats sigh,
In ink that speaks, though lips are shy.