Jumble of Bones
What's left of the poor saint
but this jumble of bones?
this grinning sodbusted palette,
these fragile winglets of ribs?
What's the end of every quest
but a scatter of fossil and blood?
this empty airfilled dugout
where a brain once claimed to mind?
What's the future of bones
but to be forgotten, not forgiven?
all come to dust, but bones in situ,
remains of a silo of ended dreams?
Labels: bones, death, digital art, poem
posted by Art Durkee at 9:05 AM
4 Comments:
You had me won over at "grinning sodbusted palette." A wonderful little gem. Very impressed.
Thanks! Glad you liked it.
I'm with Jim - and if I hadn't been won over then, I would have been by the final line. Quite superb - as are the images.
Thanks, Dave, glad it worked for you.
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