As the years turn to decades and bones become dust
Leeches, never given an inch, nor do they repent
Soul stricken; form crushed

As the vultures descend to dry the bones of tendon and flesh
And the centuries seam together
I'm standing, alone, at the behest of your wimper

Grief overcome by a still sadness, in the hands that used to hold me

Callous skin and dried bones
Smiting the Earth as if it were your throat
Prying the wound open, by the gnashing of teeth
In my skin of resin, there is no release

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