I will admit that this poem came to be after I held a “plastic” skull I had, which I got for some kind of Halloween thing; not sure. Anyhow, my thoughts came, I wrote them and now live with my thoughts of how I think about something. That is ok, that is me; so be it.
To hold a skull in hand and pretend
tis poor “Uric” of Hamlet fame,
But, alas, it is only bone
a dead relic of a person long ago.
A reminder of a life form that
thought, laughed and cried,
Which had features, jumped,
and danced with joy.
Now just a calcium deposit
In a grotesque way,
Pitted, holed, and cavities with
rough edges and a strange feel.
Like a picture with substance,
a reality of life itself.
What experiences, identity, features,
Of long ago hidden from view.
To touch my face and feel bone through flesh
and feel what I hold in my hand,
A non-descript top of a frame
holding me together.
Den Betts firstname.lastname@example.org