I found a brittle skeleton
Among a tower of rubble.
Its hollowed eyes were drowned
Behind a taut, furrowed brow.
The forever grin it held
Hinted to whatever personality still steeped
Within the bones.
What happens to a body
When the color and thoughts die?
A body is warm,
It's full,
Dreams and fears and emotions
And even pain
Runs through its veins.
When spilt, do they whisk into air?
Do they blow hair against the sun,
Carry calls to the crescent moon?
Or do they crash against clouds,
Shatter thunder across an ocean?
Vivid, loud lives scatter across life.
They leave behind mementos
And momentary vessels,
Dreams unfulfilled and dreams
Abandoned. Those discards
Pile around like peeping towers
And stare back into our eyes.
They chuckle in gales
And wait to prevail as they fall down
And pour across our bodies.
A kind of final revenge.
Does everyone wonder
What their skeleton will look like?
YOU ARE READING
Blood As My Ink
PoetryEmotions, beliefs, dreams, and imagination run through the body. Like ink they flow through the vein and, every now and then, it decides to run out.
