Skeleton Propellers

I am a skeleton,
calcified and chalk white,
dressing my bones like wounds.

You will find me leaning on street poles
In war zones, airplanes overhead beating out
Staccato weepings.
I am both vanquished
And strong,
Simultaneously held up,
Yet becoming one with the support structures bearing your groans.

I know every language
Or a semblance of them.
They whistle, how they whistle through my ribs like bullets
And take lodging in place of my lungs.
I wheeze out salt particle words,
Meant to flavor but ignored and sent
To mingle with your rationed sawdust,
Controlled destruction.

I am tired like a sinner
Who has worked too much magic.
My fingers cramp and ache.
Pent up frustrations
Form phosphorous to line
The crevices of my nail beds.

We send sparks to traverse the canyon walls,
Wearing out gun bays on your wings.
One day I will miss and light myself on fire,
a pyre tribute,
And my bones will give you new sawdust
With which to paint the sky.


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