Its eyes are sunken in;

Never to see the crows caw,

Or to see the trees dance,

And tango,

In the sunlight and in the breeze.

Its jaw sits askew;

A memory of murderous machinery,

Yet just a shadow of decay.

And its bones, forever still,

Would lay on the earth;

Until it could go back to being a simple surface,

Instead of the land that holds a lost soul.

The dirt can be dirt,

And the memory of it can fade.

And it will not be thought of again.

And it will never see,

The patch of perfect grass,

That its flesh fertilised,

And that its soul reared,

Beneath its very bones.