Chapel of Bones

And this is how it happened,
that I died in plain view,
my bones on display,
indistinguishable,
unnoted
as anything but scenery.

Macabre?
Perhaps,
yet proof that anything,
even hate and death
has it’s beauty.

About this poem

In a small side street, not far from the famous Trevi fountain, is a small chapel, the Capuchin Chapel, where there are rooms decorated entirely with bones. It’s horrid, and beautiful and fascinating. Not many visit. But I noticed when I was there, the ones that did lingered far longer than the average tourist in other churches we visited. I found myself wondering who these people were, what their lives were like, and what brought them here to die, and in death, become art?

In the same way, we can take our pain, persecution and wounds, and make something beautiful, giving the struggle and loss meaning. And for a few, it will have meaning.

Tom