A jawbone fit for a crown.
The teeth rattle in their roots as they, or I, maybe we, search for perspective.
A neat cut reveals pale skin too soft for the sun.
Beneath layers of the less understood bones protrude with the rising moon.
Taking sentiment with it.
Ribs played with hammer and claw.
A rending in pale soft light looks beautiful from the owls perch..
A mass left heaving and empty in a wheat field they or I maybe we see with closed eyes.

*Three of the hour.
A bleach white tower.
Of fish bone and stench.
An empty chalice enjoyed in a salt dried room.
A bleach white tower to keep away the moon.
A jawbone fit for a crown.
The King of Bones, the Ocean drowns.