On The Dust of My Bones

On The Dust of My Bones


A carnival medium told me as a teen
I'd lived many lives, even been a queen.
She said I'd been Roman, and Celtic and Druid--
that my path wasn't static, indeed, would be fluid.

Once every while I'd be someplace new
and yet know where things were, which pathways were true.
Disconcerting to know how to find
specific rooms or a key left behind.

I'd dreamed of a key, near a stone, in a hole
that was so important, it was worth my soul.
Abandoned castle on Scottish hill:
that feeling returned, quiet, still.

Wandered up stairs that curved to the left
feeling disheartened, sad, bereft.
Down a hall, the last room in line--
I knew was there; it used to be mine.

The garderobe was still complete
though crumbling now with cracked stone seat.
Compelled to reach down beyond where I could see,
and there on a ledge, I, indeed, found a key.

No one else had found it over the years,
I guess it had been safe beyond all my fears.
Why it was hidden or what it unlocked
is lost to the eons, my memory blocked.

I traveled to Italy and just outside of Rome
I explored the tunnels of an ancient catacomb.
Entire families shared shelves cut in the rock,
with areas off-limits, velvet ropes these did block.

Pulled yet again, my flashlight and I
just had to see, just had to try.
I ducked down a pathway, away from the crowd
and wandered along, tho' was not allowed.

I found out why as I promptly got lost.
As my flashlight grew dimmer, I pondered the cost.
I sat down, leaning against the wall
contemplating a skull who seemed to know all.

That old itch began running down my back, raising hair,
and I knew I knew something of some one who was there.
A Roman matriarch? Only the rich were interred.
At least that was something I thought I had heard.

The hours passed; I knew it was late,
then the batteries died, leaving me to my fate.
A final thought before sleep, in the darkness, alone--
was I indeed resting on the dust of my bones?