Author: Jason Visconti


When the sun comes out
I hear a cry over my shoulders... I spot long bones
made of gold stabbed into the earth...
the sun pours down into the marrow.

Bones made us wince in the old days...
white as ghosts on barron wastelands feeding crows.
Piles stacked high to the sky making death seem reasonable and pure.
Now bones fall out of this world and evil exits.


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