Are You Digging My Grave?
©1995, Laura Chambers-Wright. All rights reserved. This poem, or any part therein, may not be copied or transmitted by any means without prior written consent from the author.
It was a bright and blinding day
as I watched the old man toil,
Giving light and air to the long
forgotten soil.
He shoveled and he smiled, for he
was the only one,
Who knew where I was and I was
not alone.
For he was my companion, the only
one to see,
The specter before him, while the
apparition was me.
He spoke on for hours, and I
could never reply,
My voice was so silent, I heard
nothing, but sighs.
For he had known, long before I realized,
The kindest way of knowing, lay
hidden in his eyes
I looked to the old man, as he
looked my way,
The only statement I could
breathe, "Are you digging my grave?"
Another shovel of earth, tossed
into the air,
I could hear him speaking, all I
could do was stare.
I couldn’t understand his
words, although his eyes said it all,
How long had I been there,
waiting for that fall?
Oh, my dear friend, how good of
you to speak to me,
I once was bound by life, now I
am free.
I don’t know the man,
talking with the ghost,
I have never met you, my
unfamiliar host,
White robes and dreams of
silence, no I am not enslaved,
I simply watch the old man, "Are you digging my grave?"
The ceaseless noise of existence,
now silent to me,
Now, I am non-existent, and he is
my company.
The light that comforted, is now
my embrace,
And the caress of moonlight,
always touches my face.
How can I make you understand? I
know that I am safe,
Even though I watch you, as you
dig my grave.
Sweet dreams my dearly departed,
for I am with you now,
Fall gentle curtain, as you drape
upon my brow.
For that green-eyed monster has
long since gone away,
Now, there is only silence, every
step of that way.
As I walked my journey, with
death in footsteps behind,
I felt that hand of mercy that
ended all of my time.
So, my dear friend, I can’t
hear what you say,
But, I know you are talking to
me, while you dig my grave...