Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Grace

I lay your head in graveyard grass
beneath where stone-gray mountains grow.
Grace, feel the insects wriggle past

the way our hands and bodies mesh.
And as our blood begins to flow
I lay you down in graveyard grass

to breathe-in sweet decay’s morass
of blackened earth and what’s below.
Grace, feel the insects wriggle past

our muffled sighs until, at last,
a shaded scythe seems apropos.
I thrust inside the graveyard grass

for both the first time and the last,
then kiss you twice before I go.
Grace, feel the insects wriggle past

the way you slowly lose your grasp
and smile now because you know
I’ll rest your head in graveyard grass.



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