Did that fabled ruby fall with such ease?
It rolls toward me - knowingly -
with grave purpose clear.
A glance Heaven-ward offers hope; reassurance even; that they all end up
this way.

Meanwhile, moored folk flock to go:
This way, out, private politicians plotting their escape. Looking so natural. Practised and prim. It is why the eventual carving blade shall be so smooth and swift?

I take it just as they had then. But,
Rather than soil or stain,
Aching flesh simply crumbles in my Palm.
The Grave always beckons it. I already listen for the next branch struggling to avoid it's inevitible yield.
I urge it on.