The Bones

I feast on the bones,
In the shade of the grave,
In the eve
By the light of the moon;
The pale moon,
White like the bones
Which I chew.
I tear at the gristle
Of each sinew.
I gorge on the bones
And feast on the meat.
Ah what a treat,
So sweet to eat
The flesh that hangs
On the bones.
Oh how I love
And the SNAP
And the sound
Of Each tendon
That POPS,
As I pull
The fleshy curtain
From its skeletal rod
To peer
In the window
Of each man's soul
And snack on his flesh
As I go.
What pleasure I find
When nothing is there.
This is common to find,
For something is rare.
The darker the soul
The fuller the feast,
And best is the man
Who lives like a beast.
His flesh is so tender
From indulgent behavior,
And his heart is unseasoned
By salt of the savior.

- Mike Schellman

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