A strange pattern for
writing has came
to me lately.
The skeletons of
poems form when I
lie down for a nap.
Sleep always calls,
and bones want to
dance and grow skin.
Lilacs bloom, and I feel
the inner thigh of
eternity, soft and wet.
I can't get any rest.
I have to jot down the
notes or they turn
to ashes and blow away
Or, they are buried deep in
mud and slumber,
impossible to dig up.
I sleep with a notebook and
pen, as I drift off,
I whisper to the tortured
bones,
don't cry, and try not to worry.
I'll bring you to life.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: July 30th, 2025 13:08
- Comment from author about the poem: I just posted a video of a poetry reading I did at the Mason City Public Library on my YouTube channel. My books, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, It's Just a Hop, Skip, and a Jump to the Madhouse, and Sleep Always Calls, are available on Amazon. www.thomaswcase.com is my website
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
Offline)
Comments2
Really enjoyed the video, brings the poems to life
A most interesting metaphor here Thomas. Skeletons of poems sends quite a picture. Nicely written my friend
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