six feet deep

too long spent
wishing upon the
scattered dust of dreams
best left unfulfilled
carrying a shovel
only meant for
digging my own grave
as the ladies dance
flowing skirts
rising higher and higher
until all that is left
to the imagination
is another set of
night tremors
that vanish in the
early face of the
morning moon
a pale face in
azure sheets staring
longingly at her
the implacably bored
face of the tired sun

six feet deep
six feet long
wide enough to lay
arms crossed
waiting for the gold
to rest upon
weary eyelids
to pay the ferryman
to cross the styx

lost in the swirl
catching glimpses
of paradise between
shapely thighs
calloused hands
clutching tightly to
the worn shovel
as the moon watches
a spectacle of boredom
the tempo increases
until we all collapse
in an open pit
waiting for the dirt
to rain down over
sweat stained flesh
soaked through in
the aching desires
in the faded light
of the broken dawn

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