The earth was hard, resolved clay
Red as barns and rubies, stubborn as pack mules
The shovel dug into the earth repeatedly
Shifting its shape as a mortician to a gun wound
Throwing the foundation around like John Deeres
The sweat from my brow escaped my forehead
Lying in sweet rest, as though awaiting the chariot
To swing low and scoop its form from the dirt
But the normal relationship between dirt and moisture was lacking
Lacking a seed of hope to sprout roots and transform dust
No flowers would bloom or perennials spring forth
The earth was just being dug and sifted
That shovel was working its muscles to the bone
The clanging of metal against rock was resounding
It’s tone singing death to the flying vultures above
A black hole slow emerges from beneath the shovel
Blacker than charred bodies from the Chicago fires
Deeper than Judas’s fall from grace as the coins jingle
In this dark vastness, I plunge another bundle
Another bloated, sickening blob of matter
This ghastly figure gripping my life as a lowly barnacle
Sapping life as assuredly as a thousand leeches
A burial prayer and the benediction ensue
As I bury another friendship…
Recently I have buried a few more friendships. Maturity in life dictates change. If you have not changed things and people around you, you are probably not enjoying life. As you grow, you must realize that some of the things you have grown up with are not growing as you are. An epiphany must blossom that allows you to grasp that some things around you have finished their growth cycle and that you are destined to leave them behind. The saying should be “more friends, more problems.” As you weed out the garbage, you will find your life becoming more organized. Your level of BS will slowly decline, and you will find that more of your personal business will remain your personal business. The circle of realness created by real friends will become closer and will secure you against those who are really not beneficial to your spirit. As I bury more friendships I remember as The Phoenix, in death…there is life.
Red as barns and rubies, stubborn as pack mules
The shovel dug into the earth repeatedly
Shifting its shape as a mortician to a gun wound
Throwing the foundation around like John Deeres
The sweat from my brow escaped my forehead
Lying in sweet rest, as though awaiting the chariot
To swing low and scoop its form from the dirt
But the normal relationship between dirt and moisture was lacking
Lacking a seed of hope to sprout roots and transform dust
No flowers would bloom or perennials spring forth
The earth was just being dug and sifted
That shovel was working its muscles to the bone
The clanging of metal against rock was resounding
It’s tone singing death to the flying vultures above
A black hole slow emerges from beneath the shovel
Blacker than charred bodies from the Chicago fires
Deeper than Judas’s fall from grace as the coins jingle
In this dark vastness, I plunge another bundle
Another bloated, sickening blob of matter
This ghastly figure gripping my life as a lowly barnacle
Sapping life as assuredly as a thousand leeches
A burial prayer and the benediction ensue
As I bury another friendship…
Recently I have buried a few more friendships. Maturity in life dictates change. If you have not changed things and people around you, you are probably not enjoying life. As you grow, you must realize that some of the things you have grown up with are not growing as you are. An epiphany must blossom that allows you to grasp that some things around you have finished their growth cycle and that you are destined to leave them behind. The saying should be “more friends, more problems.” As you weed out the garbage, you will find your life becoming more organized. Your level of BS will slowly decline, and you will find that more of your personal business will remain your personal business. The circle of realness created by real friends will become closer and will secure you against those who are really not beneficial to your spirit. As I bury more friendships I remember as The Phoenix, in death…there is life.
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