These Bones

These bones of mine keep me mobile
and prim, and proper, and tall
They hold all of the guts inside of my skin
to blacken out the Sun
A big ol' pile
A structured mass
That are seldom ever seen
Until they twist and break and penetrate
The soul that is within me

These bones...
They play with fire and wane under the moon
In some naked dance of permanence
Be it in soil, wood, or tomb
I swear they're getting sharper
Unlike most that wear out smooth
Other bones...

This skull is drunk with knowledge
These hands are getting old
These feet crack when they're walking
Those obscure and dirty roads
A spine,
With force I straighten up through my cranium
That with age I'm sure will weaken
But for now... Well...
It's good
The bones of Tchaikovsky are somewhere FAR from here
But the music they made still lives inside a hollow near my ears

I hand the pen over now to this skeletal form and pray
These bones will deliver a poem
Before my essence fades away

Untitled

Everyone is fruitless in their aspirations
And just as it has always been we still walk around pretending that everyone isn't dying
Living, breathing stories that if aren't written are somehow forgotten
and who better to tell them than strangers wasting souls in the pummelling grip of silence?
Lick your fingers
Turn the Page
You are what is imagined of you
And there is nothing more terrifying than this.