The Poetry Of Everything

Bones Of The Soul

I put down,

in writing,

the bones,

that form my soul,

lay them out,

for all to see,

and stand back,

watching quietly.

Will they be left,

as they are,

to turn a,

sun-bleached white,

or stolen,

will they be,

well-loved,

the favored chew-thing,

of a hound,

pulled and twisted,

turned and gnawed,

flayed,

and cracked,

and split,

examined,

and loved on,

'til there's nothing,

left?