Slaves beneath

You see naught but flesh
in the wrought schemes that stitch every dance,
in patterns of rising- the ritual of our days,
our lives bedecked with precious import
as if we stand unbolstered before tables feast-heavy,
and tapestries burdened with simple deeds are all that call us and all that we call upon,
as would flesh blood-swollen by something other than need.

But my vision is not so privileged and what I see
are the bones in ghostly motion,
the bones who are the slaves
and they weave the solid world underfoot
with every stride you take.