Burial
The rain beat down upon the rocky soil,
The shovel rested 3 inches deep in the dirt,
The grave was not a big one,
What with the dirt soft and mushy,
The grave site being a marshy pond-land,
But at the behest of the bereaved,
It was for the best.
The coffin was... awkward,
Unlike other coffins,
This one was made of wood never uttered in human words,
From bark never laid upon by human hands,
Or rather, this unbelievable wood,
To put it simply,
Had never been sold at a hardware store,
It had never been carved into use at a carpenter's shop,
It was never even smoothed into a toy by a toymaker,
Nor stretched into a polearm by a smith,
Nor hammered into a beam for a house or a church,
Nor keeled into the spine of a ship.
Why?
The answer was simple:
This wood was of a ruddy, rubbery, swamp-wood,
It was mucky to the smell,
And gooey and tacky to the touch,
And boring and stupid to the eyeful sight,
It was ugly wood,
As ugly as wood could be.
And yet even despite its stupidity,
It found purpose and use
And in spite of its macabre definition,
It was crafted with a strong sense of distinction,
Distinction as fallible as the backside of a warthog,
And just as filthy….
…
A body lay in the coffin,
Something most typical these days,
And yet…
It…
The body…
…
Was…. You…
And the rain continued to fall…
Pitter-patter,
Pitter-patter,
Pitter-patter,
Pitter-patter,
And the rain continued to fall,
And the coffin was buried,
The lid that opened to show the face,
With eyes wide open,
Vacant, and empty,
Watched as dirt was shoveled into the hole,
Covering the whole in darkness,
And then the sight of the dead,
Went black.
The shovel rested 3 inches deep in the dirt,
The grave was not a big one,
What with the dirt soft and mushy,
The grave site being a marshy pond-land,
But at the behest of the bereaved,
It was for the best.
The coffin was... awkward,
Unlike other coffins,
This one was made of wood never uttered in human words,
From bark never laid upon by human hands,
Or rather, this unbelievable wood,
To put it simply,
Had never been sold at a hardware store,
It had never been carved into use at a carpenter's shop,
It was never even smoothed into a toy by a toymaker,
Nor stretched into a polearm by a smith,
Nor hammered into a beam for a house or a church,
Nor keeled into the spine of a ship.
Why?
The answer was simple:
This wood was of a ruddy, rubbery, swamp-wood,
It was mucky to the smell,
And gooey and tacky to the touch,
And boring and stupid to the eyeful sight,
It was ugly wood,
As ugly as wood could be.
And yet even despite its stupidity,
It found purpose and use
And in spite of its macabre definition,
It was crafted with a strong sense of distinction,
Distinction as fallible as the backside of a warthog,
And just as filthy….
…
A body lay in the coffin,
Something most typical these days,
And yet…
It…
The body…
…
Was…. You…
And the rain continued to fall…
Pitter-patter,
Pitter-patter,
Pitter-patter,
Pitter-patter,
And the rain continued to fall,
And the coffin was buried,
The lid that opened to show the face,
With eyes wide open,
Vacant, and empty,
Watched as dirt was shoveled into the hole,
Covering the whole in darkness,
And then the sight of the dead,
Went black.
♠ ♠ ♠
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