Wind Bound
Brittle, till you crack,
Made of bone, you lack
Softness to survive,
Rigid as a rod,
Righteous as a god,
You’re not long alive.
Powdered bone to dust,
Blown with one good gust
Through the withered trees,
Flecks of boney grey,
You float far away
Billowed on the breeze.
Copyright © Steve Eng | Year Posted 2009
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