At the Table of Dry Bones

Posted: October 22, 2013 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

At the table carved from driftwood

sits the skeleton Man.

Pale light flickers in his eyes sockets

a sort of manic ghost of a flame.

The time I met him he sat there,

grinning, and raised a tarnished chalice.

The bread on the table stank of blood

and the wine poured out from under his robe, staining it crimson.

Alone at the table,

except for the loaves of bread

and the smell of blood and smoke,

he stayed. Never had I seen a more pitiful Man.

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Comments
  1. jrbenjamin says:

    Interesting meter and arrangement of words. Well done.

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