There once were
Dreams worth writing,

Instead they are
Softly spoken

With feet treading ground
Once hallowed
Upon sacred dirt
Soon to hold
What living bones
Take their walk
Over calling graves
Being buried –

Deeper each day
While we suffer
These minutes
So tragically fast.

Those blades of grass
Only know
An existence
Repeatedly trampled
Like our own breaths
Always too shallow
Chasing distance
Never that close –

Though we push
On subsequent hopes,

Even working hard
Getting soiled,

When trailing mud
Pushing further
Through a graveyard
Running away.

This experience
Entombs us all –

Such useless lies
Offer silence

Since words
Ambitiously falter
If uttering none
After death.

But loss tells tales
In itself,

Much how rain
Creates puddles.

Perhaps poetry
Is forever conversing
Politely from hell
Here and now.

• J. Pigno