Graveyards heave.

Graveyards heave.

In the city

They dig up caskets

Rebury them out in the sticks.

Stack the old stones

Against the wall

In rows six feet deep.

There are some old ones

Impossible to read

Totally obliterated

Like they never existed.

Where do old ghosts

Go to hang out

Share rumours of their deaths

Weave folk tales

That become bedtime stories.

Too many children die

Some by their own hand

How can you talk about that

When the burden of it

Is too much to carry.

They weren’t buried

In consecrated ground

Unless declared

An accidental death.

Too many lies

In life

Carried forward,

Everything is Arithmetic.

Who are the lies for

When the pain of losing

Lives on forever.

Prisoners of circumstance

Live in a fog of dis-ease

If there was a god

He’s up to no good

No doubt he will have

His apologists

His or Her excusers.

Making the best of it

For fear of coming up short

When it matters

At the weigh-in.

Twisting the truth

To suit their own ends

Which I guess proves something

Worthwhile.

A little piece of god

Lives in us all.