For the next two weeks he digs a grave.

He deftly wields a shovel
with hands that have forgotten
what it's like to hold the tools of life
He only knows what life is like
when he digs a hole for holy men
who have cheated others into strife
who have hurt their children, brothers, and sisters
who have made damaged wives
So for two weeks, he digs the hole deeper
than regulation states
for men who were mistakes.

The more time he spends digging
The more time the dead spend climbing

And they're always climbing
the ranks to be on top.
Falling again, bones breaking on impact
they just shake it off and start again.

He met one dead man who climbed to the top
with a light glowing where his eyes should be.
The dead man shuddered, bones rattling a song
of all the people he had wronged.
He was more bone than skin
More ghost than human
But he came back with sorrow on dried, discolored lips
and the grave digger wondered if
he could have redemption

For the next two weeks he digs a grave.

forever uplifted by teenage poets-
who cut to the chase-
us old poets who marvel at their grace
and try to catch up
just once would be enough
to put the smile back on our face!
so lets celebrate, the Teenage poets
who know so much more of the vibe
than us oldering poets, who marvel
at the HP torch bearers of tomorrow
and the future of poetry, Hell Yes!!
and the wonder of a shared HP space.

Speak these words aloud;
hear the creak of
the rusted pump
seeking fresh flow
from a depleted source.

Life is brutal
But I know there is spring
After winter
A new life
After one's death
A new love
After one heartbreak