Bone trees stand in stoic warning
battle torn angels in relentless mourning
over the frozen remains of a schoolyard playground,
all is quiet, but the squeak of a black swing
cursing its perpetual sound.
Taloned roots clench dust and sand,
skeletal wings spread out spanned
breaking the sky into funerary lace,
then hang bare boughs down
in recognition of fate.
If only the rapture came to deciduous old
and Earth didn’t cling to the last of its soul,
The Bone trees could ascend the sun’s early rays
and not preside over the end of days.