Brittle Bones in god

Brittle Bones snap with little pressure, thin skin - scratchy wax paper catchers. Blue veins make a road map scribble maze down tired legs that dance on old toes and bring smiles to cracked lips and sore hips while that old record skips sending familiar melodies down long halls.
Empty nests have soulless rooms it seems, where little heads slept and wept from the darker side of dreams. The stain remains where strange fruit bled and hanged. The silent neck snap echo that will forever be a curse - seeing the long black hearse will cause a hankerchief pull from the purse to dry salty tears and a future of years of calls with reception from none.
A pale reflection of a once lively figure that falls short of painting the whole picture of a life turned sour, thoughts of death on the hour. A wish for an ending of a life of pretending - everything’s not ok, but it will be one day.