Graven Image


I am old,

My hair is gray,

My skin is wrinkled.


I am young,

My blonde curls dance in the light,

My youth shines on my face.


I am holding a shovel.

One pile of dirt

Slowly covering


The wooden box

Holding the bones.


I cover myself carefully,

A thin layer is all

I need.




I am cautious.


A small amount of dirt 

Is all I need.

I want to be able to feel 


The gentle drops of rain

On my smooth or folded skin,

In my aged or golden hair.


I am old,

I am young.

I am buried,


But I can still feel the rain.

The cool drops on my skin

like icy,


Condescending words

That dripped


Off your lips

and into the air,


Burrowing into my soul.


When we lived,

When we were young,

When we were old,


We still cared

That rain is like tears,

Caressing our faces

With a sorrow

Not entirely our own.


Under this thin layer of silt,

There is no pounding of raindrops.

There is only the salt water


That slips out of my sightless eyes,

And the bitter taste

Of being forgotten.


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