The Purity of the Dead

Death has a purity
all its own.

It seeps up through the feet,
whispers above bowed head
and reverent hands…

It is heard in the rhythm
of heels crunching
bones of memory
with every step,
every unrelenting,
far reaching step.

Years crumble
as the dead speak,
a cacophony of whispers
all around.
The one who seeks them
falls through time
held in unbreaking grip
by cold, unseen hands,
gentle hands
that ever leave their mark,
and carries forth their blessing.

Skulls gleam
bathed in warm light
from a thousand candles.
It is holy with the smell of bones,
every bone a story
and the purity of death
a crown.