I’ve clawed a grave in my heart,
A 6 feet one inch grave.
The crucifix holds your name,
But I often find my self sleeping in it.
Myself, from you, till you.
I pour a fistful of soil on her,
I knew you were out there,
Hiding in the bushes, watching.
I turn and walk away from me and the hidden you.
I mourn for the grave,
For it never got its rightful owner.
Monica Wicks 