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These Bones


these bones

I used to believe in grand gestures of the human spirit.

But now I cling to tiny morsel moments I fill my days with,

dissecting my year in detail. Mindless games,

anything to drown out the blank rage walled behind

my eyelids.

My days are poorly written story arcs.

A scrape on my knee, blood seeping down my pant leg.

Mud on my white shoes. A butterscotch candy.

Then abrupt endings, like the set on an old film.

Lost in memories of a drunk director.

Every night I crawl back in my hole in the ground,

pulling the ash and soot over my body, a

blanket of rotten earth. And then waking up

choking on muddy aspirations realizing

I have to start all over again.

© 2020 bryce anderson

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