In Seasons Passing Poem by Mark Heathcote

I have no words, no signs and no sigils to tattoo
I have only my rough fingernails to claw you
Tear your flesh but so as not to bleed
I'll carve out my name and quietly proceed
Like-I-would in an oak tree to chisel out a heart
I'll take my time, totally absorbed
I'll serpentine an arrow that won't disembark
The years will encircle us both in seasons passing
Because the fire I feel for you is still only now immersing.