There’s a man in the field.
He’s digging a hole.
You look closer.
Looks about six feet deep.

As you approach,
You see a husk of a man.
His skin is peeling,
His eyes sunken in.
His still heart is duct-taped
To his sleeve.
He’s been dead for a long time.

He says he’s only 23,
But the little skin left
Looks like leather.
His voice is a
Hoarse whisper.

He tells you he made
Shame his best friend and
Never learned how to get
Rid of Him.

He used to go to
Church everyday
Until the stain glass
Windows shattered.
It took everything in him
Not to kiss the shards
Against his skin.

He believes in demons,
But not in angels.
He believes in lust,
But not in love.
He’s not sure if
He ever really believed in hope.

As you talk,
His lips start to
Peel off.
You see his
Rotting teeth.
It’s almost time.

He holds up a mirror
But you don’t need to look.
You already know what you’ll find.
The duct-tape on your own arm
Starts to sting.

There’s a man in the field
Laying in his grave.
Not even the crickets
Will sing for him.
You close your eyes
As the dirt and the silence
Swallow you whole.