Don’t Go Digging Up Old Bones

Don’t go digging up old bones

If you’re not prepared to face the Dead.

Old, hard shards of the past

Laid to rest in the mausoleum of time.

A vast hall of memories -

Admission is free, but you cannot touch

The precious shades that linger deep within.

Their steps haunt these grounds, echoing outward

Their ripples extending, far past the horizon.

A lover’s kiss, or a gentle hand

The warm spring sun against winter skin

Each tender moment; destined to fade and pass

Until nought but unthinking, uncaring cold remains.

“You can fill our coffins with memories and pleasantries,

But read the small print - there’s no guarantee they won’t

Seep out through the cracks between the boards, mate.”

Day by day, Time’s hands spin on

And fresh graves appear beside the rest.

Each stroke of the hand denotes

Another job to do,

Another hole to dig.

And it will not stop.

Don’t go digging up old bones

If you’re not prepared to face the Dead.