The Bones

Poison swells in a place foregone, 

left to wither as this air holds me down. 

Then it plays, the burial song. 

In deafening clatter, silence has prevailed, 

the blood—it remains,

right where she left it. 

Cold and undisturbed 

this soil has darkened, yet the pool still lays, 

it lives outside its body, 

it grows its own veins. 

Their eyes can see—

the silver clouds,

the gold in their ears, 

the blush of a laugh,

and the glimmering leaves.

But blind they are,

to the color of rage. 

And so the tarnished soil, 

is my only place.

Flowers still bloom,

and dead things are born again.

In my home, anything that breathes,

is born out of those veins.

Night creatures have fled,

but wild things grow,

this ivy is soaked,

but therein lie—untouched bones.

In my home, anything that breathes,

is born from my lungs,

and yet, they breathe.

When this rustle billows, 

and the fire slithers into this field,

these walls shudder, but do not crumble to my feet.

The bones, the bones, the bones.

My fury is a seething arrow,

forged to kill,

immortal in its presence,

unrelenting in its thirst,

but my hands were not made to set it free.

The bones, the bones, the bones.

Deserted I stay,

for I will not abandon myself,

no river's gush can save this plain,

my pride fell with the first drop of murk,

my bid to seek refuge, fell with it.

So deserted, I remain.

The bones, the bones, the bones,

is that all I have left?

They know my fatal home, 

they know to build theirs afar, 

they know the venom in these grooves,

they know the lingering smoke,

they know, they know, they know,

But only I live with it.