Bone, Flesh and Soul

Let the wind play upon those bones Like flutes, a dirge to that futile flesh

Which was but a poor keeper of

The soul it was entrusted with –

The soul that was a familiar of

The cradle of dirt wherein that 

Defunct chassis restlessly rots. 
Is the partnership of mind and flesh

As chargeable as corrupt Cain

Who sacrificed an innocent? 
Does the soul seek amends 

For its sacrilege – or does it

Content itself to suffer its keeper? –

That deflowered reliquary 

With its defiled relic.
So like flutes, let the wind 

Play upon those bones a dirge.

Else like faggots, let hellfire, 

Evermore feast upon them. 


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Writer, editor, human being.

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