#gravedigger
"There's a time and a place" the gravedigger said,
"For humour, and this isn't it."
But the thought process currently stuck in my head
Is: "Maybe it is. Just a bit."
The businessmen said, in no uncertain tones,
That my silliness simply won't do,
And quickly went back to their laptops and phones,
But I still think the opposite's true.
There's no harm at all in increasing the stock
Of the cheerfulness in this cruel world,
And, often, my humour has been like a rock
While the pain inside me has unfurled.
I cannot explain why, when I start to cry,
That, sometimes, I laugh while I do.
In the depths of despair, where men want to die:
I can see the ridiculousness too.
So if I should be sad, and you see me laugh,
Just know I'm still dying inside,
And that I simply have to follow this path,
Or tears will flow out in a tide.
Feb 21, 2024
Feb 21, 2024 at 5:24 AM UTC
i will
dig myself out
of this grave
you made for me.
i will dig up
my very own bones
my very own shreds
of skin
and come back
from the dead.
so be careful
where you bury me.
Dec 18, 2019
Dec 18, 2019 at 12:02 PM UTC
To the man who digs graves,
do not do it in the light of day
unless you want your secrets revealed.
To the man who digs graves,
do not miscalculate the placement
unless you want someone to find out.
To the man who digs graves,
do not turn the tables on me
unless all will know of your misdeeds.
To the man who digs graves,
do not tape your victims mouths shut
unless you know they are dead.
To the man who digs craves
do not run
unless you what the police to find you.
To the men who digs graves,
do not leave evidence
unless you want to start digging your grave.
To the man who digs graves,
do not heed my warnings,
unless it's too late.
Now, start digging.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC
Dark, toned muscles awash in sweat
With beads of liquid maneuvering
Through the collection of dust
Creating paths that were inhuman at a glance
But in depth were signs of immeasurable power
The searching slice of the shovel, feeling for the loose stone
A bone perhaps, in the core of earthen veins
That solidify life, weaving it into the folds of eternity
Slowing the soul until only a small tempo in the symphony of time remains
Harbored forever in the memories of others
The smoke carried particles of dust
Dead skin that had parted from dying shells,
Empty of red and full of black
The pores of all eyes
Infected with the memory of sculpted dirt
He stands sentinel, over the man-made wound in the epidermal layer of green
Watching the sun fall behind a scattered horizon line
Creating calculated contouring by shadows
Between patches of light that illuminated the insignificant descent
Of helpless pebbles
An older, breathing soul stands and reads from a weighted tomb:
“The price of living is to face an end
But the privilege of life is worth the price itself”
Then the parcel is lowered
The dust swarming into places yet untouched
A tirade of platelets rains down
Stemming the flow between this life and the spinning of the Earth
Shrouding the parcel in spattered reds and browns
Protecting it from the wrongs
Sealing it in the stillness of simplicity
With a final look back
The gravedigger turns in the direction of the sun’s masked glow
Forging a path between the peaceful earthen tombs
Making his way towards family and home
Where life continues for the living
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC