Moor Poem by JAY WALK

A while after I'd buried myself
into an early grave,
I noticed 8 bones fall apart
as they reached for sunlight to save.

I had neither noticed their rattle,
nor the blood that had long distilled,
no longer unkempt chattel,
accurately carrying God's will.

How long have I been mad for?
How long did I let my body broil?
How long has it been since I decayed
after bleeding into the soil?

And as I go back to sleep, praying
for the patience to grow another pelt,
I find myself tired and astray, wandering
near seas where ice would melt.

So I use a bone to shut my eyes,
(the only flesh half-eaten) ,
and place it so, that I can rise,
and return, this time, unbeaten.