6 feet under becomes food for worms
Days of mourning mean nothing to the dead
All they want is peace and the feel of rain.
A cross raised up in the memorial for a body uncaring
Words of grace for the graceless and angry.
Love for those hated in life
The falling leaves pile on neglected mounds
Slowly sinking into equality
With the earth around them
Well-tended with love or guilt
Flowers are as faded as the souls below them
Gravedigger hoists his shovel
Plodding across the lawn
He is one of the few irreverent ones
There is no need for him to care
His death only would cause him slight alarm
For then, he too, would be 6 feet under
And wishing for rain.