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Rated: E · Poetry · Death · #1136547
What dreams gave me II.
This story begins in bone.
This story is the truth because it is made of bone.
My skin in bone, skin on bone, skin without no bone.

We might have prayed before.
Not anymore.
Not anymore.
We might might have loved before.
But now we fall to pieces.

The silent moments, they once had meaning.
They once had meaning.
Now they lay complacent.
Without a single bone to support them.

These skins on bone, skins on bone, skins without no bones.
© Copyright 2006 Carmen Allende (somberprophet at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1136547-Bone