Courage decays

 Skeleton remains of courage
Beard and teeth pirates peak
riot speaks
wealth reheats

The bones have become grey
they stain themselves in the sun
They play autumn leaves
the trauma of life a few burning fists

Hitting our faces by the old bones
we use to speak with a lot
Out on the balcony of life
what kind of grip have your fingers got

That beard burning with all the cloud and pollution
that the megalopolis can pump in it´s fires
This need to know the box of wires
weve come to know and love

On the balcony rail more than ten stories up
Somekind of blessing some bravery
boldness
Automatic pleasure and validation

White freckled hands brace the steering wheel
of something youd want to be caught driving
Something these mass voyeurs could pop a pimple over
Some golden fleece elite imported
 
The deep deserve that poverty never recites
Never knows, cannot write of
And in its confusion denies
From its plate, its mouth what it´s brain implies

The skeletal remains of that old courage
An empty bottle in a gargled rant of a garage
Threaten to abandon the soft pig of heaven we all pitched in for
soft mud for these old bones to sink into

The exclusive tomb, the shade of the sun will
The slurping sound of heaven´s own love tunnel
Kicking up tentacles that pull you in
and you were worth loving in virtue and sin

The dollars collected across the well paid years
Running up the side of a told you so mansion
The sneak of the money grin the courage of the calcium

The balls on the son of a noble someone
The aging wilting stages summed
The ills and ales of the undying painting
The butler´s secret untold and debilitating

And the grave came dropping down out of a two piece drone
Crashing into our satin chapped laps a scream and a moan
flecks of dirt and worm and the shape of some old leather skin
Like unreadable pages of pillaged cavern scripture

All those remains of courage
waiting to be relocated under a concrete cross
With some sense of class nostalgia and righteousness
and maybe a not so stately windbeaten cypress

And the first wrinkles spread upon the face
Greeting us more merrily than youth ever could
Fingernails digging into the edge of the building
scratching as muscle gives way

Age wear and tear, joints grumpy 
Those bones still seem to crumble
Everytime we pick them up to save them
placing them back into that grave then

That second hand cash register
The mysteries of the world inside there
Hidden between the digits white and grey
And under the checks in the funeral tray

The lost treasure that the faithful ambitious
have yet to dig up for their brag zone
half a map and a rusted compass
A bag of brave bones just looking for a home