A Strange Poem

A bone hangs from the ceiling
With blood dripping like tears
And the Sandman wakes up
Deep in the moon-lit desert;
And last remnants of this grass
Turns towards the light, the fire.

Here I am, writing for myself
Words in me, through me, for me
In a world of my harmony, peace
Nostalgia, curse, insult and stings
I lay bare my arms, good and bad
With a locked door and a wry grin.

A movement, a failure, a beginning
My path has crumbled time and again
The ash floats around me with a sneer
Asking questions about the origin,
The end, the versatile chameleon
Will survive among the bones of winter.