Carving

No art I’ve found more beautiful,

More elegant,

Or ominous,

Than that which I witnessed,

Being carved into that bone.

Flakes were sanded,

Scratched,

And brushed away from the “canvas”,

Revealing tranquil spirits underneath.

The apparitions were enveloped in plumes of their own calm energy,

That flowed around the solid glowing spheres that they each were.  

These souls danced among each other,

All the way down the long white material.

The artist worked to cover the entirety of the canvas available to him,

Allowing his spirits to venture freely.

Some appeared to be playing,

As they zipped through space.

Others sat still,

Leaving there surrounding energy to move around them.

They varied in size as well,

With some fairy like in stature,

And others star-like in comparison.

But the last spirit the artist completed,

Sat still,

In the center of the long femur bone.

It was of average size relative to the other souls,

And its energy seemed cluttered.

Filled with soot and orbiting rubble.

Most uniquely it lacked a glowing orb in its epicenter,

But featured a human skull instead.

The prominent entity possessed a pestering gaze,

And its features were dug deep into the piece of skeleton.

The artist scratched its edges deeper and deeper,

With his finest tipped tool,

Until the carver finally nicked the fresh marrow core,

And the skull’s outline filled with blood.

Then the man,

To whom the femur belonged,

Began thrashing violently.

But the restraints kept him on the table,

Giving the blood tracing the skull time to slowly dry.

Then the artist,

Jackson,

Closed up the leg with a steady hand,

And untied the captive’s bindings.

Jackson then stepped back from the table,

And the various instruments spread about.

Pulling his gloves off each of his hands,

He giggled like a school girl.