Under the mud, by the root of an over growing Jacaranda Covered in worms, are the words of the man made mythical Bone collector Cursive and neat were the marks of his thinning figures Skinny finger Leaving a map and directions to his decomposing Long lost treasure Cursed by the ghosts of the bones of the friends we searched for All last summer Just as we thought to give up and move on We were faced with remains of your body and the shoes I bought for you