Skeletons are strange things.
They are an erased script,
A book with the words torn out,
A person stripped bare.
Down to the bone.
They're dead,
They have so many stories to tell,
Yet no way to speak.
Some tales we can find
If we look closely enough.
An arm broken in childhood,
A fracture from high school sports,
Or a screw from the later years.
But these are only pieces,
A puzzle with no reference,
And many missing parts.
They can only tell us so much
Without the ability to speak,
But if we listen hard,
If we pay attention,
We can hear their stories.
YOU ARE READING
Mind's Tales
PoetryIf you're one of those folks that think that all poems need to rhyme, I'm sorry. In any case, this is a simple collection of poems. A few of them rhyme. But most of them don't.
