Bones & Discontentment

The breath of night
Is chilling,
It harbors a feeling of
Discontentment and
Abhorrence.
I sit listlessly in
The shades of nuance,
Waiting for the grip of
Death to summon me.
Weightless in its
Approach, it comes for me when
I have lost all sense of
Living...

Life is wallowing in the midst
Of trying times and grated lies.

They are filed away in a box
Called Keepsakes.
We do not open it.
There is no treasure there.
Only the breath of old
Bones hanging themselves
Daily with rope too
Taut for us to unravel.

Death plays a game
None of us can win.