The din of angry bones

 Oh the skeletons, the skeletons that rattle in my closet.  The clicking and the clatter beats my brain into a batter I only asked what's the matter now they cannot still nor shatter.

I had to clean the closet out you, see, the smell was much too odious to me. I needed the light, the air and the space, I wanted to put some clothes in their place. 

But now they dance about the place, alive as live can be. They meddle and they clatter and they do so bother me.  The knitting's all a-tangle, the loom it's gone to dangles, and I can't find my readers even if they're on my lid.

You must clean out your closet or the bugs will never quit, you must shovel out every ounce of blood, tears and shit. It's a thankless task and most wait too late, and the wash water is tears for all the grief that you ate. 

It won't be pretty and it won't be nice and the empty closet will feel cold as ice. The grief that you know feels safer than this, but courage won't count if you aren't too scared to piss.

I wish I could say how long this must last, stepping into the future, reconciling the past, but a lifetime just might be too brief, for some of us to shovel all of our grief.

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