Graven Image
I am old,
My hair is gray,
My skin is wrinkled.
I am young,
My blonde curls dance in the light,
My youth shines on my face.
I am holding a shovel.
One pile of dirt
Slowly covering
The wooden box
Holding the bones.
I cover myself carefully,
A thin layer is all
I need.
Cautious.
I am cautious.
A small amount of dirt
Is all I need.
I want to be able to feel
The gentle drops of rain
On my smooth or folded skin,
In my aged or golden hair.
I am old,
I am young.
I am buried,
But I can still feel the rain.
The cool drops on my skin
like icy,
Condescending words
That dripped
Off your lips
and into the air,
Burrowing into my soul.
When we lived,
When we were young,
When we were old,
We still cared
That rain is like tears,
Caressing our faces
With a sorrow
Not entirely our own.
Under this thin layer of silt,
There is no pounding of raindrops.
There is only the salt water
That slips out of my sightless eyes,
And the bitter taste
Of being forgotten.