Fat Bag of Bones


I’m a fat bag of bones with a dead man’s tongue,

Looking at the world through wise, blind eyes,

Knowing everything… but nothing at all,

Scared to move – scared to fall.


Such is life when nearing its end,

Having lived its fullest… till it spills over again,

Knowing its value and having none,

Warning the world… with a dead man’s tongue.


Skulls and skeletons carry no life,

Whereas life… is full of skeletons and strife.

A life, it takes, to “master” them all,

Then scared to move – scared to fall.


So sit, I do, as time unfurls

And thrusts the world along the cusp

Of the turmoil that erupts

Between our perspectives… and the truth.


The truth, my friends, is that we but see

The fragment of reality

That we share throughout our lives

With friends and family… and our wives.


Comfort, do we find in this.

Security - for the lives we live.

Change, we must, should we agree

With others’ versions of reality.


‘Tis easier, for us, to be “right” –

‘Tis easier for us to stand and fight

Than to change our everything

And follow humanity’s only King.


Mustn’t we, like the leaves of trees

That grow in but all directions,

Follow the Son as He so shines

And leads us each and all,


Rather than to merely fall

In line behind each other

And in line with like kind -

With those we call “our brother”


And grow in rows upon rows

Gathering in pews as we do so

Blocking the light from our King

Drowning out His sweet voice… as we sing –


Sing the songs that we were taught

By our sisters and our brothers

With whom we grow and grow and grow

Into the rows upon the rows upon the rows of rows


Like some sick, perverted tree

With thousands of ten-thousand leaves

In one row and all lined up along one single bough

Because when asked the first and oldest leaf said that this is how


Things were done and are to be

For now and all eternity

Thus trees no longer resemble trees

And man loses all humanity.


February 11, 2011


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