I started with the poetry and prose as a warning, if you are the type who has no time for it, most people are, discard it, it’s what it’s there for
Just behind yesterday, it’s where I buried my trauma
I find myself returning, but to a different yesterday, to fresh soil, to bury new victims, does that make me the killer? no, just the undertaker. I didn’t kill them, I only put them to rest.
and the grave digger puts on the foreceps, the stone mason does all the work, I’m an awful plagerist, but no one notices. Or maybe it’s not plagerism, perhaps it’s an homage or a reference, that makes it better I suppose. Perhaps I’m wonderful, that’s for the observer to work out
but I find myself here, in my fields of the discarded, it’s where I belong, and so do the things I come here to bury. The ground is hungry. Is it? Or am I thirsty for vengeance?
It matters little, my shovel knows the way through the dirt.
and I think to the past, when I was somewhere quite similar before. Could I find my way back? Perhaps. I rarely try.
The graveyard of lost things, abandoned hopes and crushed dreams appears endless, and with every day that passes I add another entry, with every month another row, with the years I fill the sections, decades pass, perhaps soon centuries. This body will pass, some other discarder of the unwanted will take up the mantle when I am no longer able. I hold no romantic notions that I am any better at it than anybody else.
my skin grows less supple, my spine less straight, and I grow as crooked as the trees surrounding me. Ah, such sweet beauty, to become broken, to become part of this chapel to age and defeat, one in which I wonder if I am the only worshiper
because unlike some other dieties, it needs no worship, no tithes, no vows of chastity or celibacy, only a heart so scarred that one must serve, as I must.
Another day. Another entry. It’ll soon be lost in the mass of countless others, like so many other days in which some unpleasant things happened, some less unpleasant things happened, and all of it was utterly futile, as everything was since the day I first became self aware.