Bonehead.

Bones are not just

brittle relics,

abandoned on a forest floor

or buried beneath the weight of someone else’s stride.

They are architecture.

Ribs of ivory arches,

sockets carved with precision,

a lattice of strength and fragility

holding memory in its hollows.

They are not a symbol of endings—

not omen, not curse,

not poison stitched to a flag.

They are the echo of survival,

the evidence of brilliance,

the shell of a thousand untold stories.

Imagine the mind once sheltered there:

dreams rattling like acorns in the wind,

ideas sparking across synapse,

instinct coiled,

determination burning

through sinew and marrow.

What beauty is sharper than this?

That a creature’s will to live

left behind such a sculpture—

a cathedral of bone,

a testament to resilience,

waiting for someone to kneel close,

to listen.