I have often wondered What becomes of the silent bones. Devoid of whisper And cursed with structure. Growing, hardening Diverging, converging.
Keratin horns. Deer, stags, goats and cows And monsters of the darkly gallows. Branching out in the silence of nights Stiffening up like stones In the dark of Time.
Who is to say The realm into which a tree shall grow Up or down into heaven or hell For the roots won’t stop and grow forever low And the branches will spread until the Judgement bell. Mothered by Time, fathered by Earth Cast in mirth Made in dying breath. In the serene quietude of rainbow twilight, They stand as shadows of God.