I hate putting my hands
In soil
Dirt under finger nails
And the substance
Feels just like clay
And I hate clay
Because I dressed
The corpse of my
Best friend
For her funeral
And she felt like that
I touched her and
She was made of clay
Moldable and rotting
As I brushed make up
On her cheeks
And so I can't touch the
Dirt because I know what
Corpses feel like
This is a story the old Crone
Told to me overlooking the
Garden on her balcony
I could only help but wonder
Why she couldn't accept the
life/death/life cycle....
The Crone hates the dirt
Because she was afraid to die