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.

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