Skeleton Skelton

The pile of bones
that each of us owns
until we die,
mourned with a sigh,
put in the earth
for second birth,
feeding worms
and all that squirms.
It’s not macabre,
it’s abracadabra.

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From a prompt at NaPoWriMo.net, to write a Skelton, which is a poem made of short rhyming lines. There’s supposed to be a certain pattern of stresses, but I’m terrible at that. This is as formal as I get.