Once the bleeding has begun
Onto the page
the Devine words have sprung

Smiling with satisfaction
I see the birth of truth
Knowing inside
my words are my youth

But standing in the shadows
hidden in his hovel
The black clad figure
is leaning on his shovel

With gritty unkempt fingers
he is toothpicking away
with the exclamation point
from my last say

Nervously
the last five digits I do inscribe
Will the grave digger . . .

        bury them alive ?