A Field Of Bones



A field of bones,
Scattered across the plains,
Skulls and skeletons,
A thorn spine,
And needle,
Pierce my side,
Blood coils in the sun,
Ashes dot the wind,
Cinders spun,
Of plains of mighty dust,

A village,
Of war-torn distress,
Remnants of a town,
The shell of houses, scorched,
Desolate in the wake.
The silence of this place,
Haunting, the ghosts who stay,
Frames and corpses,
Chiselled to the core,
A field of bones,
Left to settle the score,

A flower grew, in the harshest of conditions,
Under the burning sun,
Among the skulls of the unsung,
A red bloom, of lonely plight,
To dazzle this horrible sight,
Growing more beautiful by the day,
Showering herself with the sun’s rays,
This little floret, nurtured by the elements,
Cultivated the plains,
Amid the field of bones,
Flourished tiny buds of red.


15 thoughts on “A Field Of Bones

  1. This is at first a horrific poem emphasized by the bones and “field of bones” by the burnt shells of the village. But I love that in the end, this “red bloom” grows signifying new life, hope, and survival even under the harshest of circumstances.

    Liked by 1 person

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