Death is a crime.
There’s a rapping on my door,
and they stand there like bars
to tell me,
“Ma’am, you’ve been sentenced
to a life-time of desolation.”
They snap the shackles on me,
frigid and thick
like the casket.
Death is the dirt.
There’s beloved vestiges
in my tremoring arms
that remind me,
“Ma’am, you’ve been charged
to a life-time of coping.”
They pack the dirt on the dreams,
heavy and lonesome
like the casket.
