Bone yard

 He walks where the bones have turned to dust.
Walking through forbidden waste, the world is so far away.
So ignorant of the trials.
Blissful in blind repetition.

The shattered edge of a femur captures his attention.
The rest of the bone intact smooth and strong.
Sun bleached something so essential.
Regal grey and white.

In considerations for the debris of the human structure.
He reads last words in cracks and fractures.
He avoids stepping on the brittle remains,
crunching it further into dust.

"Here all I see is what desintegrates" 
"So show me what will rise!"
"Will I take this powder of bone, as flour for bread?"
The overcast sky reflected the lifelessness of the terrain.

The trapped and buried bones remained silent.
The exposed ones jutting out at different angles.
Whistled offences using the wind as their voice.
Clouds form a mirror of the a sinister ribcage before him.

Looming down from the sky threateningly.
"So you think you are chosen!" A voice booms rattling the ground.
Just a necessary reminder to the folly of wickedness.
I control no outcomes.

If I say to the wicked, ‘O wicked one, you shall surely die,’ and you do not speak to warn the wicked to turn from his way, that wicked person shall die in his iniquity, but his blood I will require at your hand.
But if you warn the wicked to turn from his way, and he does not turn from his way, that person shall die in his iniquity, but you will have delivered your soul