Gardening

The dead grow flowers, while the living pine for more space to find heaven in. Flesh feeds the earth, even bones, nothing is wasted, all is put to use for the general Good. When they pass away, still gnawing at their demons, the evil are turned to good, their hard-working ghosts cut the grass in the cemeteries, with low moaning mowers. Bugs and eyes chew and seek the meek whose cheeks grow rosy and red. Stone angels cry for those that cannot. At the bitter root of the end we are at peace, heaven sent, one shovel of earth at a time.