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: 32
- Users favorite of this poem: Teddy.15, Damaso
Offline)
Comments4
Really enjoyed the video, brings the poems to life
Thank you, my friend.
You are very welcome
A most interesting metaphor here Thomas. Skeletons of poems sends quite a picture. Nicely written my friend
Thank you so much. I appreciate it.
You are most welcome
I always find it strange that when you wake up in the Night you are full of Ideas or new lines.
It's as if the Brains still working on Poems when asleep. Good Write.
So very true. Thank you.
Sounds to me like your muse is the one who wears the flesh then, amazing when we have such talent and means to write. 🌹
Thank you, sweet Teddy.
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