Tonight I wield not a pen but a shovel
the grain of wood etching into my palm
the dirt gritty, clumped against the blade
as I dig a shallow grave for the past.
Tonight I carry not a pack on my back but skeletons
macabre, grisly smiles dangling
over my shoulder, my weightless burden,
bones clanking like chains against my skin
like halloween as a child, frightened by ghosts
and plastic glow-in-the-dark skulls,
dark shadows lurking in corners, laughing
at my childish fear—
tonight, all too real.
Tonight I hear no song but a fugue
in the whistle of the trees, the tremor of the creek
the hollows of my mind left absent
metal sinks into the flesh of the earth
carving a space for the dead.
This poem was originally written on a deeply depressive night, when I was sunk into memories of places and people long gone, things…
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