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Anine Oct 2018
The day has come, I was left alone,
But my commitment has yet to be done.
I have not claimed our infinity, I have had not shown my sincerity.
I shan't be ignorant before my soul and body be gone.


I would come for her lying grave-
Each day with flowers to bring.
Open field, warm breeze, an almost perfect scenery.
As I sat and looked down in melancholy.
The tears were still to fall, the things I recall,
Until I touched the glass over you, I became lifeless too.

I will stay just as we had promised.
More than the vow we created together.
Though, my dear, you've gone home before  me,
I'll wait for my time to be with you again, forever.
It just popped into my mind after seeing this old man visiting his wife's grave.

He just died last month
Anna Oct 2018
The noose around your neck
Is around ours
Necks warped and twisted
By pools of molten tears
Erupting without warning

She was an infected bullet wound
Giving you tetanus
A black line that raced to your mind
Reddening your eyes
So you only saw death

You burned in the fire of Hades
Capricious flames dancing
A witch burning alive
Found guilty of being human
A verdict you couldn’t live with

They can't point fingers now
At the void where you were
And their fingers are lost
In old handkerchiefs
Saturated with their tears

Flowers replace you
Where you once stood
White when they should be black
You choke on religion
Even now

We pull back the soil
Tucking you up with the earth
Kissing you with impotent words
Burying you under the rope
You carried so diligently in life
Trigger warning: suicide. This was written about suicide after my boyfriend at the time's brother killed himself. It explores his pain and the pain of those left behind.
21 gun salute;
Another mother
sonless.
~SacredInkedBlood
©2018 VenjencieArnold
6-word story; brevity. WAR is our governments answer all over the world, why? War isn't peace nor does it bring Peace unless you mean, REST IN PEACE? Peace isn't peace if it's forced. Peace isn't peace if it isn't free!
Brandon Conway Sep 2018
Foot meets the metal of a cold shovel
with a sun beaming down
booted foot pushes the *****
into the soft and rooty ground

one mound of dirt
sweat forms above the brow
two mounds of dirt
salty bead slithers down
three mounds of dirt
tuned into the sounds
four mounds of dirt
birds chirp all around

stopped by a thick root
extra force must be used
give that shovel a pogo of boots
and we are at the fifth mound

six and seven are easy
as the hole starts to round
eight nine ten eleven twelve
a tomb has been found

carried your sheet covered corpse
laid you in the hole
cover you with what was uncovered
creating a man made knoll

Six years of memories
laid underneath this red dirt
many years missing
that time gone subvert
Brandon Conway Sep 2018
You get the shovel
I’ll dig the hole
we’ll bury her together
off to heaven I suppose
or wherever dogs go
you go and grieve
I’ll let the little one know
in a little bit
just expect company
RIP June 9/19/2018
empty seas Aug 2018
can you hear the waves?
the relaxing sound
hides a dark undertone

a funeral song
helping the dead and the dying
drift off
to a more peaceful sleep

when i am but a husk
let me join the many
that rest
beneath the waves
and i can feed
the ocean's creatures
to give back what i have taken

life started in the oceans
and there
it shall end

awknight Aug 2018
Take your shovel
shield the light
it burns my skin.

You have unearthed me
when I did not know
I was buried.

Internal sufferings
my home
now brought into

open air.

writhing.

my lashes bleed in fear
I escape — away from myself
the warmth reminds me

my scars shine in the sun

cover me, until I understand.
we all have our demons, but I finally dont have to deal with them alone...
Don Bouchard Aug 2018
Dad didn't want a coffin.
"Cremate my last remains,"
And so we did.
Cool and dry,
His ashes, urned,
Lie beneath the sod
And prairie sky
Waiting some clarion call,
Some trill of hope,
Bright, re-constitutional,
Faith-affirming.

Mother's wishes rise before us:
No crematory,
No embalmer.
Just her blanket,
Just a hole
Dug beside our Dad.

The law would let her wish be true,
But her children won't.
We're searching coffin plans.
Reverently grim,
Lovingly deferential,
Dutifully rebellious,
Solemn this journey be.

Pine boards to honor her thrift
But smooth and tight,
Rope handles, fitted lid,
Perhaps a little trim,
Perhaps a sheaf of wheat carved
For the old farmer she was.

We'll bury her,
Wrapped in her blanket,
Tucked securely in pine
Beside my father's ashes.

Like a grain of wheat she'll lie
Silent in her final say
Inside our final say
Waiting Resurrection Day.
Life moves forward, a conveyor belt that moves so slow, so fast, as to be indiscernible. The time is upon us.
Francie Lynch Jul 2018
There was a funeral in St. Thomas d'Aquin,
And it wasn't in the Latin tongue,
Not English, Italian, not even Norse.
It was unctioned in French, of course.
But it may as well've been Greek.
I sat reserved in my seat,
As many a French rose up to speak.
But the incense was the same,
And the holy water sprayed on my glasses,
And I sat as people knelt
And blessed themselves,
And joined in on the refrain,
I knew it by its name: Le chemin. La verite. La vie.
It's a form of glossolalia,
And it's coming for us daily.
The mourners were onto something more,
Than words, gestures and litanies,
Something greater than any of these,
Yet the translation was lost on me.
The way, the truth, the life.
Glossolalia: Speaking in tongues
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