The Three Gravediggers

I saw the bodies lying twisted on the hill
One on another
No respect for the dead
Sightless eyes still staring
A gnarled tree
Old and broken
Just one more corpse to watch
Over the others
Its jagged fingers holding the skies from
Crashing down onto the earth
Dirt flying
Shovel after shovel
As they dig their graves
Warped backs dripping sweat into
Their final resting place
Knotted fingers on immense hands
Grip the shovel and shift the soil
With arms of steel
Flies swarm their bodies
A constant wave of sound
They bend over their work
Dressed in trepidation and guilt
Sinister as the gloom that covers the landscape
Bodies intertwined as they dig
Deep dark trenches
For the mangled ones behind them
Soon they will be replaced
That they may too join the gory heap
For there are many more waiting
An endless procession
Of broken men
But for now this trio will stay
Digging
Their graves
For broken bodies
These are the living dead
They are the three gravediggers.

Poem by LiSwtSLaS

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