Years converse beneath my skin,
Babel of clacking bones
with hellish foreign tongues
discussing discontent,
barking, snapping,
at silent, silver framed memories
on shelves bowed by decades.
Day to day this cacophony,
this sound of drying limbs,
quarreling beneath skin
fragile as a moth wing,
turns me into a cocoon of clocks,
ticking off my own hours.
I long to lay down, silence
these damn chanting twigs.
Let one more night hold
my carapace in starlight,
in liquid dreams of youth.