Bones

And I swear to you, all that you will leave are your bones,
The fear of fleshing out skinnies your soul.
In the grave, minerals force a meritocracy and
the unearned aesthetic dissolves.
You will be there, slotted into the silt,
but only your bones.
Death is the elected chamber.

We can carry more than we do.
We are built to bear
fruit, and the burdens of each other.
What do you grow
in the fertile field of your flesh?
The seeds in your toes were sewn, but never grew.
A bare trellis of fine wood, but you do not bloom.

So all that will be left at the fin will be
the endoskeleton.
Marrow sapped, collagen collapsed until
the bare bones of you are as brittle as your smile.

You will sleep soundly,
But all that is left, your only stain,
all that remains of you will be your bones.
Soon, even they will be gone.