Hobbo's Poems
A quirky look at life from a Yorkshire poet and his dog's perspective
The Skull
The Skull
Buried beneath
centuries of secrets.
Layer
upon compressed layer
of mystery
and intrigue.
Unearthed
to make way
for a car park.
Treated
with more reverence
than ever
you commanded
in this life.
Forensically examined.
A large gash
almost cleaved you
in two.
A violent death.
For what cause?
For what lover?
Does the passage
of time
ease
your departure?
Make it
less bloody,
less painful,
less wrong?
It’s interesting how we can be so detached about human suffering in the past, isn’t it?
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Yes, it is strange.
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this is a call to sentience. I don’t know if that even makes sense. I’m pretty tired. But I feel like it’s appealing to us to treat even the centuries old dead with humane hands and empathetic hearts.
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Tired you may be, but you got it!🙂
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