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…


and the bones stay still

in sin and in secret.


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,


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…




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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