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What are you waiting for?
Another Dig
I am six feet below
Smelling the earth between these college ruled lines
Tethered to the warriors of word
Holding sugar laced breath while you read my obituary
Awaiting the procession
The Moon glows bright filtering into the cracks of my tomb
No poetic death here
Love and decay remains in the artist
With brittle quills I scratch against the lid
Body blooming and shaking at the
Guests here at my wake
They must have fúcking loved me
I slide my fingers over the pointy nails
That seal me inside..
They must have
