The Watcher of Bones
He waits where rivers turn to stone.
The watcher keeps, the field of bones.
His eyes are hollow, carved by fire.
His voice is broken, yet never gone.
The bones are white, the soil red.
The night is full, of crawling teeth.
No sound escapes, the barren air.
No prayer is heard, no light remains.
He counts the bones, he knows their names.
Each one a soul, that could not flee.
His shadow falls, across their dust.
It binds them close, they cannot rest.
And when you pass, his gaze will find you.
The watcher waits, his hand is cold.
Your breath will fade, your skin will harden.
And you will join, the field of bones.
About the Creator
♿ V+ Marie381Uk
Poetry has lived in me since childhood.
Ink spills the feelings words fear to say.
My poems heal, some haunt, all are pieces of me.
Stay and read please. Like&follow me. If my poetry touches your ♥️ maybe leave a small tip
#Marie381UkWrites
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