A thick death-fog over the field of razor-grass and pale marigolds, the smoky vapors drifting close to the dark mud like murdered grave-spirits, the drowsy bone yard unvisited and bare as the skeletal white-trees of winter, a dead brother probably wants out, the coldness of a cement tomb and fingers scratched raw, a dead child and dead mother who drowned, broken family names of an unbaptized world, a sea of camouflage spiders and restless dead, an expressionless sky spitting blue rain.
Should shrink from the sight of everyone, my estate is covered in sculptures, withholding a sadness I cannot hide and I cannot share.