What Flesh Is Heir To

You are the constant sound of crashing waves in the distance,

            the background noise,

            the hum of the orchestra.

You are the rushing blood beneath my skin,

            the thousand drops of moisture on my windshield,

            the hot, sticky air of the city around me.

You are the ceaseless whisper of millions of concurrent lives,

            the unending stream of thoughts and emotions that forms my existence.

You are the grit under my fingernails,

            the flaking scurf on my sunburnt nose,

            the dust trapped in the corner of my eye.

You are the ever-present buzz of my technology,

            the vibration in my guitar that lingers long after a chord has sounded.

You are the water that slips through my fingers,

            the sweat that flavours my efforts.

You are the faded shape that a long-gone painting left on my bedroom wall,

            a breathless reminder,

            a conscious testimony to something trapped in my memory.

You are the countless lines on my face,

            the calluses on my hands,

            the scars on my knees.

You are one thousand natural shocks.