It is decided, your fate;

ten years of passed since last

laid head on stone. Here,

come here, sit by the tree

where a man stands in black,

your face pulled over his neck.

He weilds an ax over bone,

bone to the head of an animal.

It is decided, your fate;

you will rest in a shallow grave:

here, lay here, between old and new,

something as new as you

while the man pushes dirt

across a great slash of earth.

Little light – there is

little light to see, and sunk

into your head are maggots.

You hold in the brains, which

fell dumb like worms in the earth

to eat, to eat, to eat your ear,

because your fate was decided

in a slow grave, stood on rock:

that eternity you would not hear.

Advertisements