A Day of Bones

A day of bones 
a day of bones
 and breaking sticks and stones…
A day of lying undetected
under hot sand and bleaching.
 A day of being still 
and being hungry and hunted
and sorry…
for in the sand you feel the secondhand warmth
but can’t ever see it golding across your face.
Can’t grasp the light that your eyes crave like a drug,
the trembling fall of brightness tumbling like motes through the sifted air,
is lost in the rasp
and in the motion denied…
Hold
and the bones stay still
 in sin and in secret.
 Hold,
 and the rods and cones run their machinery overtime
to keep the color locked tight within,
and the bones lock
to keep the trembling at bay.
Burrowing in all soft and fat
you hold,
hold,
for the sand dollaring
the hardening of your inner and outer self.
While the curtain calls for retribution not redemption in your rerunning dreams.
For in the simplest and most dispassionate of truths
there is no white charger,
the flying monkeys are out of control,
your knights are trembling with you in other, separate burrows,
and the day plods by….
Your cocoon gently strangling as you helplessly watch the sand settle in more tightly around you
and your bones accept this with resignation
and any brief and random thought of emerging
smothers itself in self preservation.
A day of bones,
a day of bones,
a day of breaking,
of sticks and stones.
©jayetomas2015
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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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