Brittle Bones

root - Posted on 31 December 1969

by Anna Morrow

In my hands, soft clay,

wrapping around pure intention

to mold my own way.

Fire stong and sturdy

solid from heat goes to distruction

and falls to the floor.

This poverty, broken pottery,

jagged edges shards that cut

sharp edges of my soul

pieces that once made me whole.

Nothing comes together
once again

in seemless circles

not like time the infinite pretender.

Bend your ear to find

that perfect state of mind

that lets you fall behind

and future trip toward sublimation.

My simple seemingly innocent decent:

I repent with one last honest confession.

Undress the truth that hides behind

gurding nakedness and stress

my heart

my purity

my hope

Tell the powers of creation to heal

this fascination with my pain.

Use the source of imagination to

grow past the inertia of distain.

heal me

fill me up


these ragged fragments, shattered in time,

as gravity takes it’s toll.

A brittle stubborn shell falls below.

And decscending down, forever falling,

the endless well soothes and consumes me-

releases me to sleep surrendering.

I find peace.

Inside tunnels deep, burrowing down with words
to honor,

I listen close to words Ive heard.

But falling down and tumbling long

words become a hazy blur.

And I am saved.


Sign-up for POOR email!