The Bones

A cacophony of mongrel whines,
The hounds gnaw at the bones,
Gnarly fingers stroke at matted hairs,
Pipes expel their gaping tones,

A curdling ring in a set of three,
Who calls in at this hour?
Old lady joints creak to rise for thee,
Worn as ground down flour,

Vacant chair bears an entrenched hollow,
Many years she sat and watched,
As the window pane grew black with mould,
Haggard lips sunk sips of scotch,

The dirtied glass is empty,
Barren chair, unanswered phone,
A cacophony of mongrel whines,
The hounds gnaw at the bones.

Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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https://nicecissist.blog

Exploring mental and physical

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