The Skeletons

By | 15 September 2022

Strange to think they live within,
mimicking our every mundane move.
There are those who believe
they would cease to exist
without us: with no flesh to hold up,
organs to cradle, unsheathed
of all practical purpose.
But perhaps it is they who set loose
our dreams at night—
in order to climb out while we sleep,
wash unattended in moonlight,
try on various shadows.
They love the music of a still house.
Pale bric-a-brac. Quiet unnecessary things.
Instead of speaking, they rock
slowly in each room, fingering the dust.
Now and then, they reach for one another
and tap their blueish bones.

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