These bones are bare,
Stripped of skin and flesh,
Demure and vulnerable,
Warm and yet so cold in the twilight
Of your gaze…
These bones are bare,
Cracked, lined zigzagging fissures
Resting sullenly in the box,
Alone and discarded in the aftermath
Of your ministrations…
Ahh…yes, these bare and broken things!
How they rustle while lying still,
How they sing in the silence,
Melodic whispers but an echo in the dark.
Listen! Listen…their song mournful
Yet vibrant, daring to spill secrets.
Oh…how they do sing!
A dirge of pain and cracked memories,
Taunting you with their fragility and strength…
The captivating music of birds and the enchanting beauty of roses have, each in their own right, inspired people around the world for as long as anyone can remember. How the two combine with the challenges faced by a struggling writer in Georgia to c
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-gene.
Ron