I COUNT THE MISSING BONES

in mimic the scratched blood
slow in the rivers pelvic thrust
falls thin on streams flesh
silent the objects placed stand waiting
burnt faces pile in vacant corner
sleeping walls trapped in inquisition

Age spreads onto fresh morning bread
a scent baked into the years
pressed within creased and missing pages
the mind
starts too count bones -
white no pink
stained in vein and artery
muscle that ancient pride
the youths fleeing stance

High on that temple
i laid

you watching
bent around a dead rotting vision
wait in perfect execution

high on this temple
this place in times disgrace
i laid again
always face to your star

Life imitates the slit throat
 the given smile