reveals an opaque existence among
the silent markers with names
of lifeless bodies buried
below ground in boxes
embellished with gold
handles.
Inside the boxes life breaks down
much like the fog that slowly dissipates into
the ground where worms
and grubs feed off
blackened fingers that
bare jeweled
rings.
I try not to walk on the concaved dirt-mounds
believing those below will
scream obscenities or
worse – I will succumb
to the fog’s misty
clarity of
life.
But I know that I will soon step upon
the lilies, peonies, carnations
that rest on the freshly dug
dirt with a silent marker
that speaks my name
birthdate and
dash.
Will the surrounding stony-kinfolk bare witness
and gossip of my good deeds
bad deeds, no deeds, or will
they remain stone-faced
with silent tongues
towards Heaven’s
Hell?
The fog’s tendrils seize my vile soul as I walk on
where thoughts of dense dreams
haunt my silken-linings
full of swollen joints
that creak each day
the sun shines
Dull.
I think, one day they will sing Amazing Grace
but not until the trumpet sounds
when flames of bright chariot-
fire burn my eyes and
cauterize the festering
stench of human
existence.