Stepping Out Slowly

I couldn't come to visit you, After we followed up behind you, And the four men carrying; They really had no right to. Some difficult path that was, wasn't it, Putting you into box, then leaving you, Lowered under turf? I thought my gaunt expression then, Would sink like turf should. Put away, Forget; the buried soil, the rot. And yet, it still catches me occasionally, When I think of the last complete picture Before this. I cannot go back At you sticking up, erect; refusing death. I will think some allusive thought, That you are up and about walking The mass of graves late at night, Refusing to sink. How do I handle your still fresh grave And settle you to sleep in my heart? I cannot bare coming back with you Running rampant through my veins. There is no relief in putting your face Away in boxes where I do not cease to see You reminding me constant, As every beat, you add a murmur too. When I have trouble finding your mark, Your precise spot, I will visit again Your plot that set you out from every stone, Is ground, just land that settles down And makes it right. Everyone the same, today, and Tomorrow's light.