Old Man Bone-bag.

“I live between the cracks of a mountain’s

Soul”, The old man said. His great time-carved arms

Stretched in knotted leather strength; his skin, tan

With Nature’s bruising intensity. Charms

Hung from his gnarled neck in casual

Superstition, shaking with his calm drawl.

“I tread the blanketed paths of your long

Forgotten past” he continued. “I seep

With the Memory’s flow from the Lost Song.”

I left Old Man Bone-bag, for he was mad.

Published by

The Sleepcoat League

Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado.

One thought on “Old Man Bone-bag.”

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