My Mistake

November 7, 2006

The bones lay at the bottom of a
deep vortex of spinning air, bistre
brown, the colour of burnt wood
sodden after rain,
in thin and twisted pieces,
ebony filed and shaped and
filed again, with concentration.
The red eyes are staring at the moon
blue pools leaking from the
empty hollows sunk below.
Red eyes, blue tears,
black bones at the bottom of a
spinning hurricane of
stupid silence.
Thinking.
Waiting.
This isn’t the end.

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