A Closet Full of Skeletons

He thrust all of them inside,
the skeletons–each and every
broken and brittle bone in the body
–skeletal systems in shambles, shoved
haphazardly in the tiny
confines of the cluttered closet,
which he then forced shut,
padlocked, and bolted.

A skeleton should
remain where it
belongs: buried,
hidden, forever
trapped in a tomb,
as it should be,
never to see
the light of day.

But he forgot a couple
of things about this closet.

First, it was not
a soundproof closet.
Once in a while,
the shifting bones would
create a clattering
noise that would
bother him.
Second, it was not
an odour-proof closet.
Every now and then,
a whiff of decay
would cause him to cover
his nose at the foul
stinking stench of his skeletons.

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

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My Literary Side

"The Words come from the Divine; from the Muse the Idea. The Poet merely transcribes." ┼Old Sumerian proverb

(Kidding, I made that up. LOL)