Playground of the Dead

I always seem to find
myself here. These cement blocks,
jutting out of the dirt like
moss-covered stepping stones.
They lead the way and beckon me with
a brittle finger. But you are not
here.

Your lovely velvet
bones do not lie underneath
my silver, satin slippers. Still
I come here, searching,
because, when I resist, my belligerent brain takes
my battered body captive.

But, just when
I think I’ve gotten out
of that creaking cage, the taste
of metal lingers. It rushes
to meet my tongue, and the rusty smell
floods my dusty lungs. I know
you have the key,
but in the darkness, it is
lost.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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