Three Old Bones

A short poem in time with the halloween season.

Three old bones lie
in wait, on a shelf.
Across from a pendant
alone by itself.

It sits on a chair
that rocks back and forth,
without soul or feet
set firmly a'north.

All this in a house
in the shade of a hill,
where the sun never reaches;
perpetual chill.

A man in a coat
stuck out in the cold.
finds shelter inside
this haven of mold.

One glance at the shelf
and unseen dead rocker,
this man's eyes grow big
a yellowing gawker.

His body filled up
with the black gout of fear,
his movement to cease
in the space of a year.

Now three old bones lie
in wait, on a shelf.
Across from a pendant
alone by itself.

Except for a coat,
wrapped 'round death, all inside.
Bones dead of shock,
lost in life, old and dried.