Rolling The Stones (Poetry)

My longbones — barely fleshed — are shortening
bunched against the fabric of old age
hanging its dull folds upon dry skin
twitching with a fierce resentful rage.

Sleep’s the panacea quieting all
pain’s old monsters squatting in the dark
memory’s the one light in the hall
love’s the soothing scar — a tattooed mark.

Hair’s limp seaweed draped upon a rock
I’m beached beside the salt-spray-flinging sea
while tides obey the yellow moon’s blank clock
my timbers rot — yet life still worries me.

Some days are fair — I sense the currents run
and feel the tug that stirs half-buried bones
a promise lingers — haunts — the hour’s come
to light the candle — roll the future’s stones.