These Burial Mounds
Don't reserve spots
It just is what it is
The dead can't speak
Because they died from physical defeat
In the tides of war
Leaving the mental condition sore.

Lately, I spend my free time imagining how I'd look at a funeral.
I've been before, but all I felt was discomfort and splintering hatred.
What if you died. My darling, I'm afraid I wouldn't change.
I'd go and stare at the wall, the floor, the people who don't know you.
Dry eyes and a judgmental, lethargic gaze settled in.
I never cried in front of you, why would cry in front of them.

I'd watch as the flag was presented, uniforms marching by the coffin.
Perhaps this would be different. I think my hatred would burn a bit brighter.
Those who ordered your death, now dictating your burial. They don't love you. They don't care.
All you are is one more casualty. One more insignificant ant being squished underfoot and forgotten.

It’s a dead man’s farm that flows row after row
A strange sick decaying crop that does not grow
But spouts stone statues and musty monuments
Digging dirt of different quantities and qualities
Slightly stiff and dark to light brown ground under
Layers of soft white light reflecting wet snow
They rip the frozen ground apart just for me
Tentatively at first then with a fiercer force
Deeper and deeper into the well of hell
The dark chamber which carries my broken shell
Those plots of stagnant crops postponing their rot
Worms inching and struggling but never piercing
Never startled nor fearing the truth that is searing
I am a planted seed never meant to grow
Potential never allowed to flow and show
Life as the cycling gift it truly is
The farm expands men multiplied by women
Children and elderly corpses cut too closely
No corn, milk, eggs, beans, bacon, wheat, or honey
Just lanes of dead men farming for nothingness

I.
At
the peak of
the season,
just when the
sun has
decided
to give
his utmost
gleam,
A single file
of
steps,
humble
steps,
marching
steps,
nonchalantly
moves.
Nonchalantly.
A left over
a right - a right
over a left -
clockwork-esque.
amidst the sun's
scorching gaze
with heads
facing down,
amidst the sun's
scorching gaze.

II.
Each holds
a box of wilted
petunias, heavy,
shriveled, wilted
petunias, for every
one to keep, for
every step
they took.
some
would only
possess
a handful
on their little,
wooden
boxes.
Others,
none at all.
not a single one.
none
at all.

III.
The day
finally sets,
and so do I
                      
A black mastiff leisurely
        takes his nap

- and gradually, I fall.
                     
  Cold drops of water
  rhythmically descends
  from the kitchen faucet

- and gradually, I fall.
                     
   A hopscotch game,
    a child then jumps

- and gradually, I fall.
                   
      The city streets,
busy with people going
           to and fro

- and gradually, I fall.
                
          A ship sails
  into the vast blue sea

- and gradually, I fall.
                
    Stars glimmering,
            dancing,
    in the cold dark sky

- and gradually, I fall.
               
                    
- and gradually, I fall.

I am unfathomably heavy
Pinned down by the lead filling my body
Numbness seeps into my skin
My vision clouds over and sounds become muffled
My lungs are full of lead
I cease to breathe
It tastes lonely and complete
I am immovable
Dirt cascades across my face
Buried deep where I belong
Down in the burial grounds
Where my crushing weight goes unnoticed

Fire!
Seven shots sound
Seven shots heard

They lower you into the soil
You always passed on through each toil

Fire!
Seven shots sound
Seven shots heard

Mother cries into my shoulder,
I look away as i lose my brother

Fire!  
Seven shots sound
Seven shots heard

A heroes burial you deserve,
This nations life you did preserve.

the archers have their fingers
pointed squarely at the hotel singer
smoke on the edge of their mouths
coiling sweetly all across the house
and the trees will part
for a song and a blood sacrifice

bowed low over a guitar
trying to teach himself the meaning of pain
sitting in the dark of a car
doing his best to convincingly feign
the long-suffering fool
with everything to gain

her ashes sunk in the sand
and the rest went over the electric dam
in the dark the mournful loon calls
as trumpets echoed in the concrete halls
and the rapids will churn
with a growl and the whisper of a lovely fern

ice is in the air
it fills all space
and leaves
   nothing
untouched

the noncomittal voice
of an unfamiliar priest
bounces off
the hard air
   unheard

dark clad people
  white faces
frozen to the cemetery ground

someone
who has not yet
fully understood
softly
   defiantly
places a flaming bouqet
of red roses

my gaze
cuts through
the strange flowers
to the time
that was

Her burial place is in the records.
We have her lovely name.
She was a benefactor of the friary,
Thus, a prominent soul.  Agreed.
Her story, lost forever.  O, what a shame.
Nothing more is known of Emma.
Here's her 5 minutes of fame!

While running my hand
across your casket,
I leave fingerprints
on the polished wood
that will be lowered with you
into six feet of obscurity,
telling no one, only the darkness,
that I cared enough for you
to watch your unbearable decent
in to peace
while the January wind
further numbed my core.
I have nothing
so these are the only things
I was able to leave you with,
but at least I know
no one will ever wipe them
from the cherry oak surface
that even my tears slid from
so easily when I cried...
But my hand
the hand that felt the last twitches of life
in your fingers
and squeezed them until the warmth escaped
has left such delicate mementos
that will never wither
with the expensive bouquets
and flowery wreaths.