‘Shouting Stories—Silenced’
Delicate moments, the racket noise they make
Bundles of them—simmering together.
I’d thought they disintegrate by now, cobwebbed and unthreaded.
I’d hush them long enough, one would assume the noise would fade.
Their stories still telling and those remarks still told.
These skeletons in the closet, holding all the baggage I have ever owned.
I’ll be making the best of it. I’d dress them up, fancy and nice.
The whole lot of them, I have a car for them outside.
Buckle them up, take the bags too!
Here’s the card—drive them real far.
Sure of it, they’re unbreathable, they’re still…
The passkey of ol’ tales and unused reflections.
My movable spirit, illuminating a place to rest
A hankering desire too digest this gratitude,
The dust would settle by the time there is room to be humble.
A little mindful drift far, a little pull of closeness.
Finally, a shimmer moment of silence…
A nice shaken cocktail of goosebumps and chills handed to me.
Sure enough their bones would have grown brittle
They would disintegrate with no place to stay
More polished than ever, gleaming, and bright
They don’t come empty handed, I’d taught them right, their carpal base full of delights.
Some stale stench of coffin nails, and unhinged bottles
Grim photo albums and quirky fabrics
Only items worth praising, some dusty ol’ tones on the sparing jukebox.
This I can stand—lyrics and all, the entry ticket to coping mechanics. Light weight, heavy weighted…
How they know me so well.
I put them back, did my closet grow?
Is there more room in this home?
I take a bite of my heart, the words racing in my mind.
How old are these skeletons now that they’ve been out again?
The baggage feels quite light out of sight
The weight they truly hold…
How much gratitude is left to digest?
The dust sets, spiders spin their webs, a silence begins
Peace. Center. A soft humming is nice.
Not a word of time back then spared.
I’m quite polished now, half-shaken, good-deed doing.
Hard working and well rested.
Just a bland story, perfection.
Not a word of them shared, it’s fair. They’re just a muse.
Silence takes over on a snooze
Drenched in baggage and roughed up bones.
Once upon a time a fool now with healed wounds
These skeletons hold the reasons I can understand some of the things I otherwise can’t.
Nothing but a ol’ thanks to the sparing skeletons.
