my little skeleton girl

feet, cold as the thin sliver of a blade

swaddled in the harsh caresses of white, pure white
white so blinding
so tortuously, agonizingly white
that one bleeds rivulets of ebony and ruby upon the vast swath
of burial cloth

craddling her feet.
her feet are cold, so
cold.

her fingers,
broken upon the knuckles and ragged from the abrasive
weariless
merciless
grind of coarse chainmetal
upon rapidly chilling fleshmeatbonetendonblood
brushes across the stick
the lithe swaying stick
of leg
protruding quaveringly
above the snow.
they leave trails. of enameled smithereens, of disgraced red
of anguish bent twice in agony upon itself.

she is cold, feet up and fingers down. there is nothing besides these
to feel.
but oh, the keening of the imprisoned heart
emaciated soul
surely there is pain.
surely there is a remnant of regret
behind the empty sockets.

but as surely as the vultures and carrions have taken her
she is left naught
what was once felt never to return
to this wasted barrenland.

feet, cold as bitter truth spilt from dying lips
remain stoically planted in the punishing white tomb.
her fingers mourn in whispers
as they comfort the cold legs,
brushing them, touching them,
resting against them

for all eternity.

there is nothing but the scratchy wails of the consolant digits in this world.
there is nothing left of her
but the dead and the mourning.

one can almost hear
the eagerness of the vultures
when they return for more bones

come summer.