Boneless 

In The Mulies, the sky was small 
and full of land sloping 
into draws and gullies. 

And there were big, pregnant mares, 
bare-hoofed and rearing, 
fattened off the range. 
I felt redundant as I lay 
lacquered with blood. 

The man returned late in the afternoon, 
stood firm 
into intolerant wind, 
filled the sky 
blind. 

I watched, helpless 
as he let the woman take my horse. 
I am relieved of even this. 

Will I wither into the crow’s peck 
and settle my dust; 
become boneless, 
non-supportive 
of the world’s structure 

The sky swallows a far cry. 
The land is flat and full 
of bleached bones.

Morgaine le Fey's questions:

My biggest problem here is the 5th S: letting go of the burden of life. It might be a bit too editorial?

I'm also not sure the concept of detail flattening out into expanse comes across as an effect of dying.