Yellowed moonbeams flooded slantingly through the forest,
Crisscrossingly spearing and slicing the night,
Whilst throwing the foliage alight,
As I work to finish my task, brimming with fright.
Though familiar with the sight I behold
The moon ray-lit woods looked fresh and anew,
Whilst continuing to do as I’m told
And allowing my spade to strike true.
What of this spot, this hollow
If my body tires? Becomes spent?
Wanting to defy and not follow,
Ever knowing of his intent.
No choice but to labor to the bottom, the end
To bare my last, shaky breath.
For his gun will be quick to extend,
Making me give up the ghost and take death.
Nearing the last few spades of cold, forest ground,
Wondering if I’ll ever be found
Under a large soil mound,
Whilst tears trace down my face awaiting his guns resounding sound.