December 7th, 2012 - BonesMature

They want to make buttons out of my bones.
I suppose they sing songs, too, made of my groans.
And now, since I've been dead a little while,
They're using folders of my skin to file.

They want to forget that I had a grave.
I'm not a memory they'd like to save.
I'm an inconvenient fact, still here,
A rumour whispered in a newbie's ear.

I'm the horror story, a job gone wrong.
Already forgotten, though not gone long.
An accessory for those I have served
After a death that I hardly deserved.

They want to make buttons out of my bones.
I no longer breathe; they won't hear my moans.
And who would object to economy
Now that my bones are no more use to me?

The End

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