Don’t grind me down.
Don’t leave me to the fire.
Don’t feed me to the feral beasts
Among the frosted pines.

When we rise,
There is no mistaking
The joyful sound
Of these
Cold bones shaking,
With every step
The old bones take
In the last round
They’ll be making.

Don’t blast me into
A cherry mist,
Don’t bind me
Or bury me in the mud.
If you’re wise,
You’ll drop me in the sea,
To slow the
Unstoppable tread
Of these lonesome bones.

When I rise,
Is there forgiveness?
Absolution for all the sinners,
Dragging these
Dreadful bones
So far from home,
Into the light.