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