It's Like A Death

The groundskeeper keeps digging,

Crud and dirt into the pit.

Parting glint of steel as light goes out,

Cursing darkness as cold reaches bone,

Waiting

For the comforting thud as the dirt arrives home.

There is no service planned for want,

The spade trembles as it falls,

Deora Dé rain turning dirt to mud.

Effusive wick at the windowsill,

Taunting

The heart keeps digging as the mind waits still