the bones inside of poetry

The Bones Inside of Poetry

Tis pain that dances in the air, in the shape of lightning that deadens the skin beyond the pleasures of the heart.
That stretches in the creases, foldings of longings that rhythm cease to end and the night is eased painfully by the threatening skies of passion rend from the soul and bleeding still.
By the twilight fear overwhelming all senses in the spite of remembrances of that awful sense that abstracts the mind from the solid foundation of the bones inside of poetry.