To Thomas, Keeper of the Bones
You cradle the restless marrow of midnight musings— those skeletal whispers that rattle beneath the skin of sleep. Where others dream and forget, you scribble resurrection on the back of darkness.
Your pen is a lantern in the fog of sirens, a net cast deep into the kraken’s yawn. You fish for ghosts and feed the starving soul with lines that bleed and bloom.
Bravo again, you old conjurer— you’ve made the bones dance.
M.
For dear Thomas W Case conjurer of words, rattler of bones
and poetic supremo
Of "Writing Through Storms"