Silent Bones

The death of a woman hides beneath the dirt as a testament to loveliness and beauty, the honey of life gone with her silent skeletal mess.

 

 

Silent Bones

 

 

 

No one shall see,

Or hear of her anon.

 

From now,

Till we all,

Are called up,

To that great space,

Which we call Heaven,

The heap of bones,

Of heavily laden, tired bones,

Will sink,

Like a dead bee melts,

From a shriveled,

Nest of honey.

 

Until we see again,

These remnants,

Of so-called life,

Her sting, has become a,

Once vibrant, succulent taste,

Of explosive passion,

Which, like the one-time sting,

Dies, after the eruption.

 

Oh lady,

You’re honey has now melted,

With the snow.

 

As the season changes,

You lie beneath,

A cloud, of brown, and green,

But we still know,

Where your bones,

Rest hidden,

A heap,

A pile,

A once,

Exquisite,

Virile,

Bee of life,

You now lie,

Dead beneath,

The comb.

 

We will miss you,

But as the days pass,

Shall know that you were,

Once like a bee,

A honey.

 

And now we know,

That you rest,

As a pile of dead messes,

Of scattered messes,

Of ruinous treks.

 

Oh lady,

Please come alive and give us once again your-

Honey.

Author's Note

A figurative epitaph for the death of one lovely young lady