The Road of Bones
There is a zone between here and there,
Where few would choose to tread.
The baking ground shines bright
With the teeth and bones
Of those who lost their way,
Wandered long without a map,
And starved and lonely lay down to die.
The clean white bones, picked bare
Of flesh by wily carrion birds,
Lie as their owners fell.
And if you can but bear to look,
To stare long at the path they make,
The way ahead comes clear.
My path is made of ancient bones,
Holding still their unspoken words,
Waiting for kind and patient hands
To lay their jumbled lives anew
And read the way their bodies made.
I cannot tell which way to go,
Which path to follow, where to roam.
Beneath my feet is only sand
That’s made from bones returned to dust,
Gleaming silver under noonday sun.
No limbs stretch out, no fingers point,
No laughing skull grins at me;
Just pure white sand of powdered bone,
Stretched out till sky meets earth.
The sun is hot, the nights are ice,
But while the sand beneath my feet
Remains this eggshell textured sand,
Then I will know that others long ago
Have trod this road and lie here still,
Guiding my witless feet from harm.
The road of bones leads surely on
To what end I cannot guess;
Its end in sight, then I myself
Will lay my bones along the road,
To mark the way, while I go home,
On silver sand and joyful feet,
And leave the road of bones behind.