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
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