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Woman of Bones

Nude woman

I am a woman.

A woman of bones.

I do not walk but rattle.

I do not sing but spit

turbulent moans of regret

fragmented in the memory.

For once upon a time

this woman created life

now this woman,

only creates death.

I step heavy with this burden.

Crunching flat

all sound of my existence~


from the luxury of psychology.

I live in the invisible

where you will never see me,

but hear only my skeleton howl.

Percussed in winds that puff

smoldering pyres

of lost primal woman cries.

I walk away from life.

At home amongs’t

beds of the dead

where purple roses lay still,

shadowed in forgotten ceremonies,

ashes to ashes: dust to dust:

I dig deep.

Sniffing infertile soil.

Desperate is my tired womb;

I cannot remember fetal beats

as I bleed vacant blood.

I am searching for nothing.

Nothing of matter.

I find solace and comfort

in depression.

Where woebegone scripts

are embedded in calcifying scratches

along my sciatic nerveless spine.

The beginning was good.

The middle was fine.

But the end was not.

I’ll forever hunt

in whispering graves.

I deserve no more

than to capture

all women’s melancholia.

There; I will find my treasure.

I’ll sew in congealed blood knots

pieces of their dead skin

that no longer seek to throb.

I’ll use these stinking parchments

to pattern an old dress,

embroidered with shards

of their silently aching jaws.

Bejeweled with an amulet

of woman’s broken teeth.

I will dance tantric

amongst the unheard chattering souls

that sing to all women

who are dead enough

inside this life to hear

the beautiful songs of the deceased.

For I am tribal.

A grim warrior.

A bone collector.

My carcass must be covered in their decay.

My ears must never hear again

the rhythm of a tomorrow.

I have chosen my path: this way,

where the sun does not shine.

Where nothing grows but disease.

All I deserve

is to crumble through the rest of time.

Here in the darkness,

where the clock ticks backwards.

I will haunt cloaked in the morbid,

clanking in the shadows

suffering this passive burden.

I’ll wait dressed in an ugly defiant remorse.

Hear me in the past tense.

Sense my most palpable stench

as laments rise from my rotten breath.

Listen as I decompose my mortal song.

Cruel mother of mothers

come back from the stone

let me suckle your bitter endings again.

Hold tight these bones

deep within your suffocating breasts.

For this is my execution.

My pain.

My crowning lullaby of thorns.

Only this I care to remember.

Tara Fleur    28/02/2016