Yes, things have to get down to bare bones –
To the place where muscles sore and hot like fire,
Burn my flesh into cinder before I create.
I create to survive.
My age like a curse or curved scythe presses
The time edged clock into my mind
And my leaden body. It ticks faster
Than the beat of my heart
Bringing panicky chills
That I won’t survive long enough to create.
Why create I say?
But there is a dark figure inside
That pulls me down
Down to my grief
Down to my roots
Down to the compost of my life.
Does he – or do I push myself head long,
Into this brooding and velvety place
To touch my passion to stay alive?
Maybe it’s both of us – a team –
Surviving the modern world’s enemies
Indifference – cynicism – death
And the terror of surviving in those
Dead places fully alive.
Yes, Bare Bones, take me to life.
© Sara Taft 2015