The Skeletal Night

An ancient imprecation

The night tumbles like a landslide 
Over the skeletal stares 
Under the motionless sky,
Camouflaged by a cavalry of clouds—cast-off,
Whirling around the mindhive.
The gallops scare the bees.
They fly amok.
But the honey tastes nice,
Almost ambrosial; with its very seep
The people savor the flavor of the night. 
The queen buzzes an ancient imprecation.
The parchment doesn't catch it quite. 
But people heard it;
The skeletal ears too, in a long forgotten time;
It was loud. Still,
No skeleton poured ink on the parchment—
quite right. 

Many centuries go by unheard 
What the wind tries to tell them. 
It always warns them of the bees. 
The parchment remains blank every time.
Honeydrips left blots 
On their skeletal chests—
Dried up with summer air,
They felt both warmth and heat—
Skin on ribs.
The parchment remains blank,
Never inks the seas
Of secrets underneath. 

That's why, the people say to their offspring,
“A lot depends on you,
Forget the skeletons.
Their parchment is more or less empty.”
Like the parchment itself,
The offspring don't quite catch it. 
They ask the people,
“What is parchment? Why empty?”
“You’ll know my child when the night is long
And it feels like a landslide 
To the skeletal eyes.
To their skeletal body,
Their skeletal mind.
Listen to the wind, always.
And you’ll know what honey tastes like.”

The night draws in, 
and the offspring grow up
Hearing stories from people
About people turning into skeletons
And skeletons turning into people.
And the tales of a thousand mountains mounted
And a hundred seas swum in between. 
But they never quite grasp it
Until the night knocks on the door,
And they don't know if they should open it.

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🎨: Skull of a Skeleton with a Burning Cigarette by Vincent Van Gogh (c. 1885-86)|Oil-on-Canvas