Scrimshaw

Just underneath my flesh are bone tattoos.
No ink, just the needled etch of my muse.

Fables & memories sketched on my skull.
Time takes meat but my skeleton’s not dull.

Centuries hence, pull me from my garden.
Peruse tales writ on calcium hardened.

Yarns of adventure & tales of caution.
Even names & dates every so often.

From coccyx to collarbone, I am drawn.
When I’m long dead, there, my lore will live on.