Skull

The bones are bare.
The bones are bare
and dry as desert rock.
And yellow cracked and salted meat
and raw as death,
as crows in flock.
As raw as salted stock.

The dust and wind grows ages long
and every scattered seed befalls
the single fate of every man
and every tree,
and you and me,
and every living thing.
Mortality.

Behold we must,
the single slayer of the just
and evil just the same.

Alas, begone but not begotten.
Belate.
Dig your mud and shards and date.
Okay Ché,
take the past and free it.
I like archeology
but I wouldn't like to be it.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.