We have been digging and digging the ground even before our forefathers were born. We enjoy it as it defines the essence of our existence. We even built our homes around the pit so
refuge
won’t be far when
the rain comes and
flood the hole
so we can  have warm stew
when things get cold
and soft bed to lay our backs when we
become weary
We even made fire to
conquer the darkness and
sang songs and danced while we dig
But we have been
plagued
by the why and
never really cared
So we dig and worship the pit
and deny our very
end…

the shiver of hands
blind without memory
and so,
friendly still
yet sweet like the words
forgotten
to the tremble of lips

quiet
there are no surprises here
rest your eyelids
until they become stone
rest your heart
until it stops

(it beats now only for itself
in some secret place)

Can you feel it
Subliminal with a sting
No gas chambers
No camps
Just as effective
Your life being ****** away

Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes, --
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
The garment neither fur nor hair,
The cloak of evil and despair,
The veil long violated by
Caresses of the hand and eye.
Yet such is my unseemliness:
I hate my epidermal dress,
The savage blood's obscenity,
The rags of my anatomy,
And willingly would I dispense
With false accouterments of sense,
To sleep immodestly, a most
Incarnadine and carnal ghost.