Bruised Bone

Weird Poetry

A bruised bone not yet supped of its tender marrow

Is nothing more

Than a soul tethered to the material that conceived it,

Waiting for the moment it returns

To the mouth.

It’s a smiling frown staring stark into the night-tainted sky

Without noting the stars

Just yet.

You’ll never know me by name —

You’ll never know me by the initials carved into my veins;

You can only ever know the exhaling and the sighing you refuse to hear,

Breaths left behind in the dust motes hanging on the breeze,

Or morsels of marrow

Left cold on a chipped porcelain plate

Outside of your door.




*** Sometimes I don’t know how poetry works. ***