Overgrown With Vines

Overgrown With Vines Three meatless, boney, fingers clawed at the hard dirt, glistened in the emptiness, cursed the damnation of the full moons lie. Death and the shallow grave had come quickly a sharp metal edge the instrument of both. The vines, the ever growing, ever reaching strangling vines had come much slower, clutching and grasping the remnants of an unexamined death. He had fought them, the vines, struggled to raise a hand, to signal the intruders of his silent hell. Slowly he succumbed to his fate gave up the ghost of justice delayed relaxed into the dirt and stone accepted the anonymity of a life the ignominy of a death overgrown with vines. 9/29/2016 submitted to – Overgrown With Vines – Poetry Contest sponsor – Broken Wings