The field of memories needs no bones
from we who were denied the right to live.
We left behind an imprint on our babes,
a legacy to be carried in the flesh
where sense of self developed in the crib
and family stories settled into dreams.
Are you nothing but boasts and scheme-filled dreams
ingrained like age rings on a tree’s bones?
If we could, we would look upon fragility in the crib,
reach out to shelter, protect those untainted lives
knowing that the world would bruise such tender flesh
once your suspect attentions fixed upon another babe.
There is no adamantine shell that protects our babes.
There is nothing but the zephyr of a hope, a dream,
though nightmares are more likely to abrade the flesh
and suck vigor from the marrow of our bones.
It is a torture to know yet have no way to save their lives.
We watch in sorrow as crisp leaves settle onto empty cribs.
Spirits often flock like moths about an empty crib
and hope to occupy the blank slate of a newborn babe.
It galls to see you persist, a malignancy to other’s lives.
Now, as I start to fade into unpleasant dreams
I have vivid flashes of my blade-nicked bones.
I drift, resist before I go—to leave winter’s touch upon your flesh.
Tell me, do you remember how you abused my flesh,
used me as serf, a lab rat, made me steal from the crib?
Then you chopped and sawed my body down to bones,
one of many victims, hapless girls to helpless babes.
I had so often thought that if I had one dream
it would be to be allowed to leave and freely live.
It is not to be. A life is not always one’s to live.
In death, we are a legion of naught but tainted flesh
that you defiled. We knit our restless souls in vengeful dreams.
In gestalt, this grave we share is but a form of crib
where more is conceived than blameless squalling babes.
New designs form from the carnage of our charnel bones.
This dream I dream was for revenge to resurrect our lives,
infuse our desecrated bones and clothe in supernatural flesh.
We crawl from this crib, suckle your soul. We, the wronged, are death’s babe.
