The Skeleton

Cold, green grass buried under bare feet,

Shivering, squirming to get loose, to be free,

Wiggling up between toes, afraid of being trapped.

Rasping against skin, embedded into the bones

Reclining in the tall weeds, the rags of plant life

Clutching, clinging to their prize, the only one left


That did not escape. The searching finger bones

Grope blindly at the stalks of grass that trapped

And held too tighly onto the delicate fleshy feet,

Pink skin writhing and struggling to once again be free

But what the earth creates is too strong to be left

To rot and die alone untouched by other life,


Another body pulled into the dirt and trapped

To become a part of the unwanted remains of plant life

That was forever imprisoned and never free.

Memories went from dust to dust and left

Behind the faintest trace of the fragile feet

That had plant themselves until the bones


Were all that lingered in the gras, all that was left

Of the struggling humanity that had dragged its feet

Through the soil before it had been tainted with want of life,

With the desire for the sweet redness of trapped

Blood dripping between and through the bones,

Leaving a taste of need that wanted to be free.


And, yet, with longing, that need to be free,

It couldn't be. The wishes and whispers on bones

Should not matter to the weeds where the body left

Scarlet, watery reflections of birth and death and life

As if spring turned to winter then to summer. Trapped

Beneath the glossy white frost and trampled by careless feet


One time too many after a series of sorrows in a life

Where sorrows were many, and happiness wasn't left

For the unworthy skeletons, piles of bones,

Of stones to be used to build hands and feet

For the next generation of people to use to free

Their rotten, melting souls that were still trapped.


What left of the decay, the decomposing life?

Why did the grass hold feet and keep them trapped?

Bones are all that it has; it can never be free.


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