Green

Grasshoppers sing upon inhaling graves

a sweet tune of melted moss and time.

The rocky mound is slanted,

and from the base of the hill

you can hear the crickets mourn.

Inside the earth, the insects writhe

without struggle or fear

that their end is growing near.

Instead, they continue their song,

their opened-mouth stuffing of the dirt

and the possession of the grave.

Sloped and splattered with mushrooms

and the rich smell of moving damp soil,

is where his still body still lies.

I put my bony hand against the stone,

pretending it's his fleshy palm

and request his final rest

to be a meaningful one.

So rest now, my newest friend,

under the crooked necks of the lilies of the valley

and the freshly packed soil

and allow your soul to travel with mine.

Come now friend,

Ignore the mourners with their songs and tears

they will return each spring to praise your decaying body

which will lie here through the years, fresh with

a halo of gravel and a crown of flies.

Come now friend,

ignore the scythe

and my eyes as dark as night.

I'm here to help

to release you from fright.