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The Bonesong
March 5, 2013
Clammy shadows slide away under my fingers
Ribs like rungs on a ladder pulling me up
To bleeding lips spilling white clouds
Into the curtain that hides us
So wet, so cold, so dead, so wrong, so hot, so close, so alive
Brittle finger bones cling, griping wire shoulders
Red ink stains porcelain
Art no one understands
And she loves me tonight
If she’s dying like I’m dying.
© Sarah M., Blairsville, PA
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