The Lonely Bones

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Dare to peer underneath the black fabric

stilling the sound of your racing heart,

summoning your weary courage trapped inside a deep pit,

full of a cemetery of lonely bones

to gaze upon the dead man.

Dare to call his extinguished spirit that once burned bright

like amber flames dancing in the midnight sky

warming his lovely heart,

now still and resting,

no longer beating to the pounding of drums.

Dare to pull back the cold sheet

and see that the pale man doesn't sleep,

whose blue-black lips and vacant green eyes stare up at the sky,

sending an icy chill down your spine.

Try not to pity the dead man

who makes the fifth body this week,

who death came to reap.

The black- winged angel found him slump in his chair,

eerie white noise emitting from his tv,

the static noise buzzing in his ear,

his vision filled with black and white lines,

sensing the black-winged angel waiting patiently behind him

for darkness to come alive.

Time begins to slow until there's nothing at all,

falling into the dark purple abyss.

Amongst the shadows death slowly reaches out

with bony white hands, bleached and bare,

seeping silently through the old man wrinkled skin

and into his exposed soul.
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The old man was stripped of flesh,

only a skeleton of himself remained standing in a dying garden

wet with the melody of rain

covered with scattered raven's feathers

smelling like the sweet perfume of blooming violets.

Violets.

Violets.

Mournful violets.

Or was they happy?
Smiling to the dead.

The man hears the Reaper grave voice calling somewhere in the distance

sailing through the tears of black rain onto a falling damp violet petal

saying it's time to come home.

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