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?