Woman of Bones
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~
dissociated
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