By Sean Bachman
I am the bone collector,
I gather up your bones.
I creep in and see you sleep,
and slumber in your home.
You seem to dream so restlessly,
you toss and turn your head.
It’s almost as though that you know,
you will soon be dead.
I grab your throat,
with long thin hands,
and hold in your hoarse scream.
We flee out then into the night.
You panic as my eyes gleam.
I am the bone collector.
I gather up your bones.
I take you now,
into my home.
A stained red cave of stones.
I am the bone collector,
I gather up your bones.
But first I need to get them out,
I break them up with stones.
The meat, I need to slice and shave.
It all gets in the way.
With teeth as sharp as razor wire,
I shred and rip and play.
The screams and tendons tearing out,
Inside this dark deep cave,
Cackling then drowns the sound,
as your organs stain your grave.
Finally the lights go out,
Behind your hallowed eyes,
the blood drains out,
Which I lap up,
Becoming hypnotized.
I am the bone collector.
I gather up your bones.
I sit at end, amid my feast,
upon my pale white throne.
