Bleached Bones

The sands of time
scrub us clean.
Sun salutations,
detached mandible
screams.
We each led full lives,
each lost in time,
how will they know
what our screams
mean?

Bleached bones.

The scarabs droning
on about Khepri’s
morning birth
and Atum’s
lonely groans
of singular pleasure
in his birthing home.

But, we’re alone,

deprived of rebirth,
deprived of renewal,

no self-womb
to protect us.

As you dry,
with blood or ink,
scrawl your life
on the nearest sheet

of papyrus.


© CGT, 2018.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

1 Comment Leave a comment

  1. Being so roughly eroded and exposed and brittle, this makes me so uncomfortably thirsty for rebirth. Perhaps life will come if I can get anything on that papyrus. More imagery that sticks to the bones.

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