Jig Of Bones (Censored) Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Jig Of Bones (Censored)



Reclusive death,
How will you find me if you continue
Reappearing amidst the pale and bleeding;
Keeping your dinner appointments with
Banqueters gorged of salmonella-
The runny eggs you tap and $uck
With your morbidity turned up with a sallow smug:
All the laughing moneyed do not know they let you in;
But your extinguishing soul is blowing
The candles gently from the bared window;
Little souls themselves, you test.
Snidely, they are snorting,
Never imagining your grim shroud
Does not meet their dress code;
Though soon you will be leading them away from
Their earthly accounts, in the procession
Of silhouettes, like marionettes the moon pulls-
The fickle saints who go down beneath the fens,
The little haunts where you jaunt with your best of friends;
But for certain, death,
How will you find me if we have no mutual friends,
For I am yet young and healthy without tumor or scourge,
Without enemy or sentence of execution;
How will you find me then, if you can not smell me
Or hear me laughing like a contaminated dinner party;
I will keep the door open, reclusive death,
And then the day will come when you will find me,
Sooner than is thoughtful, I suppose,
Like a hungry wolf who smells an open rose;
Then lead me down to the funneling river,
As we do the jig of bones.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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