deepundergroundpoetry.com
Skeleton's Dance
The skeletons in our closet
Dance before our eyes
Around the fire in front of us
The ones with deadened eyes
The spark is gone, and only ignites
When laid upon drugs, sex, money
Or something they can steal
The fire before us
Is filled with familial love
Mothers telling stories
Fathers tending the grill
The daughter bringing cake
And the son, hiding his secrets
Skeletons running from the table
After mysterious calls
Skeletons swinging by their neck
From their girlfriends garage rafters
Mothers crying in anguish
Fistfuls of dirt in front of a headstone
As the flesh rots off her son's skeleton
Six feet under dirt
Encased in a fancifully lined coffin
Skeletons absconding to the restroom
To sift through the pills in the cabinet
Secretly, they think
Skeletons dance among us,
Their bones bleached in the sun
Their cheekbones high, gaunt
Their souls stolen
By the needle or the bump
They do not dance to music
Anymore.
Dance before our eyes
Around the fire in front of us
The ones with deadened eyes
The spark is gone, and only ignites
When laid upon drugs, sex, money
Or something they can steal
The fire before us
Is filled with familial love
Mothers telling stories
Fathers tending the grill
The daughter bringing cake
And the son, hiding his secrets
Skeletons running from the table
After mysterious calls
Skeletons swinging by their neck
From their girlfriends garage rafters
Mothers crying in anguish
Fistfuls of dirt in front of a headstone
As the flesh rots off her son's skeleton
Six feet under dirt
Encased in a fancifully lined coffin
Skeletons absconding to the restroom
To sift through the pills in the cabinet
Secretly, they think
Skeletons dance among us,
Their bones bleached in the sun
Their cheekbones high, gaunt
Their souls stolen
By the needle or the bump
They do not dance to music
Anymore.
Published 30th May 2017
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Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
31st May 2017 1:00am
Ah, deep, dark, and true.
They do not dance to music anymore, and that is the most sad. It's a devastating and exhausting cycle, the whole circus of it. Much respect for this one, sis.
They do not dance to music anymore, and that is the most sad. It's a devastating and exhausting cycle, the whole circus of it. Much respect for this one, sis.
Anonymous
4th Jun 2017 7:44pm
maybe i'm not looking at the poem at the right angle. hey it's all good, who knows maybe the skeletons are on a safe planet or mixing some universe in a universe
Anonymous
4th Jun 2017 7:33pm
quite leary to express myself completely
so on a lighter note, the poem surprised me
all the elements one could hope for were present & are still. it really matters where the reader is at. this being said i laughed alot. the poem is truly vast... a playground for madmen & madwomen. this piece is worth visiting when... i feel the need to itch impossible & have lost all my energy
thank you
so on a lighter note, the poem surprised me
all the elements one could hope for were present & are still. it really matters where the reader is at. this being said i laughed alot. the poem is truly vast... a playground for madmen & madwomen. this piece is worth visiting when... i feel the need to itch impossible & have lost all my energy
thank you
4th Jun 2017 9:08pm
If you take it very literally, as in the skeletons are actual skeletons, I an certainly see the humorous aspects. I read it again under this guise and also laughed. When I originally wrote it, the skeletons are a reference to "skeletons in the closet," as in the secrets people carry with them. I wrote it after a funeral of a friend who had passed because of suicide. Many of his friends who came into town (the skeletons of the poem) were sporting hefty drug problems and other issues.
