Lone Bone
and then when we arrive at the prime
after a hard climb only to find nothing but thyme
life tastes like lime and we begin to mime
what to us was all grime and slime
to our face the ill-winds are blown
and what remains is the clown
we feel now that a clone has grown
inside ourselves we find what we own
the seeds have been sown in the throne
of the stone where our lips are sewn
the moan is thrown
& now back to the lone bone
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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