This rag of your bones is not my rag

This love is your love not mine

Your words are not my words

Your pictures

Your scenes

Your drawings and sketches

Of a world that shines dull

Full of lack lustre looks and scuffs

The moribund half shaven dream

Of what life might look like

These are all yours

Not mine

 

The rag of my bones is a silken cloth

Not a blood -stained bandage

Passed down second hand

My words ask and request

Not demand puncture and suppress

My pictures are the colours

Of the open seaward sky

Not the rank smell of hades

It is a place of a feasting table

Where hearts will not leap through fear

But just for the sheer joy of living

 

The rag of my bones is the oily cloth

That wipes the heat of engine at full bore

The cloth of my face

Upon which I dampen down and refresh

The wounds of the frayed

It is that binds the bones

That fears no foes

That bears the stripes of wounded flesh

That witness of forever hope

Against the fragments of torment

It is the beautiful congress

Of mother and child

The father of unfettered love

It is the lint that is eternal

These are all the rags of my bones

For which I will always be grateful