of sticks and stones

touching stone
I feel the cold
shiver through each fold,

touching stone
the strangest air
laying still and bare,

touching stone
it’s huddled there
waiting for an empty chair,

touching stone
it holds me close
it never lets me go,

touching stone
I feel a tear
dry before
it falls
dry before
I shed my fears
of sticks and stones;

touching stone
the sound of noise
comes in screams and cloys,

touching stone
empty space
suffocates
open air
suffocates
the breath I take
the sticks and stones;

touching stone
a lonely fall
words that seem to stall,

touching stone
a surface-tension
rails against pretension,

touching stone
the sound of bones
their crumbling decaying tones,

touching stone
it’s nothing more
than jetsam on the shore.

© Emma Calder

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