these bruised knees
aren't from praying

The wind charm perched outside sitting still,
No breath to move it, stagnant
As if
Rigor mortis
Morbidity
Death
Had touched the air, inside he sat,
Tears streaming from his reddened eyes,

"Such beautiful music,

The log fire burned intensely , inside were his branding irons,
He had many in his holder, all sitting neatly,
Stifled noise whimpered near by.

"Time ages many things, many things,
"But bone is a music that sings beautifully,

The white metal was ripe for the flesh, as the
Duck tape peeled slowly, then ripped
As blood spots seeped from skin vandalised
And he recorded every tone that sang forth,

"You are A+ grade my, my, the music we will make,

"Plunged into the  torso slowly,
Not wanting to not damage, that
Delicate,
Exquisite,
Fusion
Of bones that graced the air,
Screams echoing throughout the cabin,
Reverberating like a concerto on the senses.
He puts his headphones on, and with blade
Sharpened to its full potential,
As if a conductor waving it through the air.
With precision he cut, and recorded till silence fell.
Flesh was limp on the floor unwanted,

" Meat for the hounds I think,

As the heart still, faint essence of life's beat clinging,
Thrown to the awaiting dogs.

"Eat your heart out,

(He giggles smiling to himself)

The bone now cleansed of life,
Blood,
Muscle,
Marrow
Expunged from the host, till hollow then
Maliciously worn down to the tune of each, till
The silence breathed out. Each one was unique,
Having its own sound of death,
I heard the gesture of breath upon my master piece
Dangling,
Swaying,
Hanging
Life taken but the voices sing out,
I close my eyes and listen as wind kisses each hollow
And the music of death sings out, each made from
Only one never a mixture, as corrupted
Would the sound get two souls  jousting
Over the voices expelled with winds gesturing them out.
I sell these pieces to those enticed by deaths voice
Hollowed out life, given purpose in silence  
I sit in my chair the brands all in there place.
Tears form as the orchestra of screams scratch
Deep within his soul,
The wind speaks to those bones hanging outside.