Singing Bones

Singing Bones
© Surazeus
2018 02 21

I hold the bones of children killed by guns
in my anguished hands, but I cannot piece
their puzzling bodies together again,
yet I will carve love into their frail shapes
so their singing bones can express strange sorrows
in haunting melodies of their mute loss.

This bone came from the arm of the young girl
who attended the high school in that state
where birds inaugurate the truth of love
in flocks across the sky when she wields brush
to paint landscapes of our beautiful world,
but now her blood paints sorrow on the Earth.

This bone came from the leg of the young boy
who attended the college in that state
where horses race with the wind over mountains
when he kicks the soccer ball into the goal
and his family cheers to celebrate life
but now his blood soaks the grass of the field.

Alas, poor Angela, I knew her well,
I muse as I gaze in the vacant eyes
of her skull that smiles forever at me,
laughing at the vanity of desires
when we work hard to fulfill all our dreams
till the angry boy shoots us with his rage.

The justice bone connects to the heart bone,
and the love bone connects to the truth bone,
and the sorrow bone we carve into flute
with holes that whistle our aching despair,
so I play haunting melody of horror
when the angry boy kills beautiful people.

I will build grand memorial to their names
with the bullet-shattered bones of their bodies
in hollow cathedral ribbed with their souls
illuminated by blood-red rose window
showing Our Lady of Sorrow who weeps
when the angry boy kills all our best friends.

The merchant of death in gray business suit,
who sells guns and bullets to angry boys,
walks over the mossy graves of our children,
killed by angry boys, and clutches his hands,
attempting in vain to wash out the blood
that spurts from their bodies to drown the world.

I need my gun to protect my family
from thieves who steal from my hard-working hands,
says man in the red cap who falls asleep
on his couch, then his five-year-old son grabs
cool gun and shoots his sister in the head,
so I add her bones to the Church of Death.

Students in every school across the land
walk out of class and gather on the lawn
outside the hall of stone where laws are made
and cry out for assault guns to be banned
but the lawmakers, pockets stuffed with cash
from the gunmakers, laugh at singing bones.

When the gunmakers, hungry for more profit,
melt down our tall Statue of Liberty
and manufacture ten thousand more guns,
we all build new Statue of Liberty
from the bones of our children killed by guns,
and we gather to be the singing bones.

I hold the bones of children killed by guns
in my crafting hands, and make from their deaths
temple of wisdom to preserve their names
for at death our bodies return to dust
and our souls flash back into pulsing light
so all that is left is our singing bones.