He attends the graves, a tear is shed
As he prunes the weeds that grow forth
Names,
Dates,
Year
Of there death,
Freshly dug, not long for this world
He buries them alive
He watches there eventual time past
Life,
Death,
Choosing
The last breath they take,
He sheds a tear upon each passing
"A wooden plague"
Hammered deep to their passing
He looks upon fresh earth,
Handfuls smothered upon his self,
He cries through dirt drenched skin, these
Tears
Are
Purity
That fall upon now dead earth
He gazes upon the many plagues
That read of each moment they are now past,
He sends families the paper of passing
A picture,
A moment,
Frozen
In families eyes, The passing he let breath
Breathe its last,
He is the grave digger,
He has many plots fresh for the living to die
He will shed many tears that pass In his graveyard
Of the living, and the now **dead.
He buries you in a spot, looked after while death waits, he mourns above
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