I’ve spent long enough with bloody hands,
digging graves in the dark.

Waiting.
Waiting for bodies to arrive,
only to realise that I’m minutes away
from collapsing into my own.

Sisyphus rolls his stone.
The Lord bore his cross.
I dig my grave and have never asked why.

I guess I’ve always loved
a noble cause
and a mourning crowd.

Oh, it’s a funeral for friends —
the dark night carried
by a symphony of sorrow.

A comfortable spot
by a weeping willow.

Black is such a slimming colour,
but I’m hungry now.

Fate has had it.

Something snuck up on me,
holding a lantern
to my handmade holes, and said:

“Ha! There’s nothing holy about this.”