The Bones

nothing can be more dry than a piece of human bone they steal the vitality from you even as you look i stare at a broken 200 year old coffin filled with all facets of skeletons; a jamble mass of broken, brittle, sorry state of dehydration; joints, ankles, skulls, and thigh bones that had taken on the years to nowhere, a stamp of desolate whiteness that dissipates the spirit and gnaws at the heart with its teeth of anguish dont get me wrong, they are just bones and nothing else, and they arouse no fear, no ghost walks with them; death is like the bones, dry and empty, carrying a whiteness so dissipating i guess that's God telling us it holds no more life, merely broken jigsaw pieces where no more dream can be put together