Betrayed by the Ancient

Bristling away the dirt so delicately,
To reveal the fossil from the Earth.
Skeleton weighed down with dirt.
Violence from the past revealed by such a soft brush.

Soft brushes past the thorns of brush.
Thorned. Barbed. Scratching.
Clawing at the skin to get within.
Telling of its defense.

In my defense, i let them scratch.
For the dead know not, that they bleed.
The dead, known not, that they bleed.

It is our nature, collectively.
That life shares in all this plane.
Ultimate truth, that we somehow are part.
Just to leave our remnants to the accumulated ground.

Like so long ago.
Like now and forever more.
Cruelty repeats.
Never cease.
Like disease.
We persist, we endure.

Til the brush of death tickles our ribcage.
The piles of dirt slowly dusted.
And we never hear another laugh,
Or experience one ourselves.

We seek order in the laws of anarchy.
We adapt. Thrive. Destroy.
What nature is this of any kind?
Though no other reality has ever taken place.

We seek our wild, in the terms of order.
To dismiss whenever seems fit.
Brushing aside for a date later dealt.
Before willingly returning shackles to our wrists.

But our bones hold our stories.
As do the ones we excavate to uncover.
And we handle the sword.
And we die off in swarms.
As our skeletons lay next to each other.

And you bowed before their breath.
And they spoke it to your deaths.
But we ease and claim that you rest.
Until we brush the dirt from your bones.