:

from the dawn of time the boneman sits.
uncurling his dry bones in the dirt of the bone orchard.
a cinder track tongue that rasps out oblivion.
with out wings his thoughts take flight.
thoughts of flesh and the muscle of lust.
eye crack to jaw break his vertebrae creaks.
a thorny note that rustles.
but his dreams are as sand and his lusts are all spent.

.

.

picture for "house of bone" - rui effe (art) with words by cocaine jesus