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.