What remains

Control is a power that’ll slip once you force it.
A feral being that’s clothed for naked eyes.
Numbed feelings, hummed hearings,
it’s better to welcome than wave them goodbyes.
 
Sighing thoughts are common to come across.
Buried belongings dug up to admire.
A man’s hard labour torn to infinite pieces,
no god’s work is saint or labelled for hire.
 
Buried without remains.
The bone collector comes out to play.
Married without constrains.
Our hearts need song and visual aid.
 
Mud. Watered dirt has become your housing.
Tears formed by rains will water remains.
Stone. A weighted mass above your head.
Rewritten by death himself it claims.
 
Born in war.  
Gone to war.
Torn by war.