Ossuary

[Tiger the Lion]

It is the bones.
 
It is the rattle and crack of what remains
as the caws of the corvids scrape across tar,
crying for flesh; feeding their young.
 
The young remain
forced into the thousand crosses
of Calvary; bound as the countless
virgins frozen under the hands
that will raise them to whore.  
 
Our nests are thorns dipped in gold.
Old temples crush the new
and call it charity.  Images line the walls
of the grave.
 
Miracles run black over
withered palms; the sheep eat the shepherds
and are reborn in the mud.  All eyes turn
to mirrors: the images diminish.
 
When you see the blow, you know
it is not for you.  Your hands are pressed
together and your ears are filled
with dirt.  We are not crows, to sift
through filth to thrive.
 
In the end, it is not the bones
but how you break them.

Happy Birthday Leanne.! 

Always loved this one. Thank you for everything.  ><