Old Bones

Old Bones

Picking at old bones again,
Digging where the past has lain,
Searching through what time has thrown,
Finding things I should have known.

Old memories lie beneath the dust,
Some were love and some were trust,
Some were promises turned to stone,
Still I sit picking at old bones.

Why do we go back to pain,
Knowing it will hurt again?
Why disturb what time has grown
Over all those buried bones?

The bones don’t answer, but they remember,
Cold as January, warm as September,
Every touch brings back a tone,
From the life that once had grown.

There are names I dare not mention,
Words still stretched with old tension,
Faces that have long since flown,
Still I sit picking at old bones.

Some were broken, some were cruel,
Some made love look like a fool,
Some cut deeper than was shown,
And left their mark upon the bone.

Perhaps the past should stay beneath us,
Not rise again to hurt or greet us,
But curious hands will search alone,
And start again upon old bones.

I find old laughter in the marrow,
Old tears hidden, deep and narrow,
Every hurt I thought had flown,
Still sleeping quietly in the bone.

So I gather up the pieces,
Let the searching slowly cease,
Some things should be left unknown,
Some things best left with the bones.

Yet tomorrow I may wander
Back to where the shadows ponder,
Because the heart is never done
Picking at old bones, one by one.