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
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,
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…