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.

Tweet

Comments on this poem/writing:

Click here to read other Poems by Jason Visconti

Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: All Rights Reserved.   No part of this website, including all pictures and written words,  may be reproduced or copied in any manner from this website without  permission of the original author of the work.  All poetry and pictures herein remain the sole property of the original author and/or copyright owner.  All poetry on this website has been submitted by the original author of the work. To contact any author of the work please e-mail: dreamer@dreamersreality.com  so the proper person may be notified.