Bones
On the cool blown shore of white rocks at dawn,
By prattling water clear, fresh and thin,
Rests the lone one who tarried on and on.
Clothed blanched bones, wrapped in worn and battered skin.
From sky, the sounds of prey birds make their cry.
On the withering shape below, they sight
This world torn form wracked from a life gone by.
Too numb to be brought to life by fright.
And then down to feast, these birds do glide
To peck the tender parts that lie within.
And with the shell cast, what remains inside
Is quicksilver and bright, and purged of sin.
Loose, freed to rise, roaming wild beauty.
Shattering out in perpetuity.
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