Out Of The Dark

Exhumed, this brute spirit gone,
a convocation of ribs and vertebra,
skull and pelvis, eaten through
by the flukes of your science,
naked in the insult of your light,
waits, through the rough
and twisted skein of history,
stripped of robes, backlit,
blithe to the indigestions of time,
waits, among the artifacts
and empty gourds, the findings
scoured from tombs, the facts
far from truth.
              Bones absorbed
this spirit, estranged in ways
a thousand years could not achieve,
waits, in the stony eye of your conceit,
for the next crossing, the instant
of return, where we might meet,
you going your way, I another.


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