As the night drags
so does my optimism
My pessimism takes hold -
or is that my realism?
Is there really any difference?
In the moonlight
there is doubt, there is uncertainty
there are knives, there is blood
Could I perhaps
paint the bone-white moon
with the crimson pouring from my veins?
Could I perhaps
pillage the bones from my legs,
sharpen them as the pain of loss dullens
then with the other end,
create a paintbrush -
so I may cry out for help
one final time
Before turning my own femur
onto myself,
inpahling my chest with this sharpened, partial skeleton
They always told me
I had a calcium deficiency
perhaps now,
as I lay with only my final thoughts
and the crickets which, too, have grown silent
my heart will have enough calcium
to one day become as strong as bone.
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