The Watcher of Bones
He waits where rivers turn to stone.
The watcher keeps, the field of bones.
His eyes are hollow, carved by fire.
His voice is broken, yet never gone.
The bones are white, the soil red.
The night is full, of crawling teeth.
No sound escapes, the barren air.
No prayer is heard, no light remains.
He counts the bones, he knows their names.
Each one a soul, that could not flee.
His shadow falls, across their dust.
It binds them close, they cannot rest.
And when you pass, his gaze will find you.
The watcher waits, his hand is cold.
Your breath will fade, your skin will harden.
And you will join, the field of bones.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (1)
What a haunting poem this one is. Good job.