Dark, toned muscles awash in sweat
With beads of liquid maneuvering
Through the collection of dust
Creating paths that were inhuman at a glance
But in depth were signs of immeasurable power

The searching slice of the shovel, feeling for the loose stone
A bone perhaps, in the core of earthen veins
That solidify life, weaving it into the folds of eternity
Slowing the soul until only a small tempo in the symphony of time remains
Harbored forever in the memories of others

The smoke carried particles of dust
Dead skin that had parted from dying shells,
Empty of red and full of black
The pores of all eyes
Infected with the memory of sculpted dirt

He stands sentinel, over the man-made wound in the epidermal layer of green
Watching the sun fall behind a scattered horizon line
Creating calculated contouring by shadows
Between patches of light that illuminated the insignificant descent  
Of helpless pebbles

An older, breathing soul stands and reads from a weighted tomb:
“The price of living is to face an end
But the privilege of life is worth the price itself”
Then the parcel is lowered
The dust swarming into places yet untouched

A tirade of platelets rains down
Stemming the flow between this life and the spinning of the Earth
Shrouding the parcel in spattered reds and browns
Protecting it from the wrongs
Sealing it in the stillness of simplicity

With a final look back
The gravedigger turns in the direction of the sun’s masked glow
Forging a path between the peaceful earthen tombs
Making his way towards family and home
Where life continues for the living