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