The Bones

I knew an old lady once whose bones would ache if a storm were approaching. Perhaps it’s a physical attribute when the body ages, or maybe there’s something even deeper.
For marrow is an architecture draped in precious designs; beauty marks, scars, freckles and hair, we can all agree that without the ivory lumber there would be nothing to hold us.
Together, all in one, piece by piece and fractured, we pull them along with every misfortune only to rest them on a bed of silk below jagged roots and wet soil.
So could it be the pain in her bones can be equated to the intuition of acquired wisdom? When clouded skies approach us with sure disaster, is the spirit telling us to take shelter?
When fowl energy comes near, there is a force that tries to pull us away. Much like a child and a stranger and the deathly truth that some candy is only meant to take the baby.
It is only until weeks later they find them in the woods, scattered from the pines to the creek with fragments considered evidence of a wolf’s carnage and a father’s cries.
Sometimes they belong to souls who wanted to indulge in the night and taste the polished skin of forbidden fruit, but little did they know the beast wears thick-rimmed glasses.
In acidic pools one can find the remains as they float in chemicals next to a lifeless heart in a barrel chest; this is what the jury studies as these souvenirs lay upon table museum.
But some storms take the form of sunshine on German hills and behind their walls is a Hell mouth which reeks of halitosis that smells like burning flesh and flowing ash.
And those who are starved down to a skeleton and dripped in pale plaster become the human race’s martyrs with numbers inked into their forearms.
There are even men who are inspired by this suffering and peel back the tenderness as if were a tangerine to use skulls as bowls and rib cages as chandeliers in the living room.
These bones are for their mothers and they organize them separately in different compartments and turn the leftovers into lampshades, outfits and even masks.
So it’s very well possible that the pillars and white branches within us actually do sense trouble; however, many are naive to its warnings of the ones who desire to keep them.
And the tragedy is, none of us ever know what they are trying to convey until the storm has passed and the bones are exposed for all the world to gander upon.
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Published by

craneknewitt

I have currently been busy with life and I will be re-publishing older poems. New poems will come. I'm always under construction.

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