Rubble/Skeletons

A poem

Image taken by the author.

Skeletons in closets
reanimated,
hungry,
vengeful while you sleep.

The past is gone, they claim,
but it lingers in the mind

like a cloud pregnant with a raging storm
sitting heavy,
ready
waiting by the jungle
silently snarling, lips wet
and waiting.

Public faces feel much like attacks,
I hide mine and, instead, retreat

the Earth ravenous, widening,
preparing to swallow.

You look at your hands and see
a shaking, hazy blur

face flushed and pale, barely familiar,
seemingly belonging to another,
and the pills just don’t help anymore,

the weather just won’t clear,

the heavy, towering gates
are creaking shut,

thoughts like corroded bones,
numbed until ignored -

that pile of rubble
was once so precious,
that pile of bones
once held together by a spirit…