Dry Bones

And in the days to come, we will speak only in rhyme
For we have time now to look at the ceilings of our rooms
And, timid, sound out the limits, the dimensions of our tombs
For all together, but each alone, we are on the tracks
As Eliot prophesised, we hear the rattle of the bones behind our backs
And know at last, that pride and stupidity was our crime.
The nightmare passes as quickly as it came,
Silicone and stainless steel alone remain.