Bones
The wind dries our bones,
leaves hollows, marrow
sapped,
fallow no more.
Inside
in the paths,
circuits, neurons spark and
go
along sear,
synaptic lines.
What once lit and danced
now
sits shelled.
Lovers linger
under dying vines outside
cafes.
They hold no sway over us
Old Folk.
And the fair kiss
they trade
we know will fade
and pitiless winter
come again.
Beautifully sad. I’m a sucker for sad songs and I guess I’m a sucker for sad poetry as well. That was brilliant!
Thank you, Scott. As always, I’m grateful for your encouragement.