Grave

by BRIANNA ROSE BURTON

Death would be adorned
if not knowing it comes
but once;

once to the prepaid grave
no one will visit.

Death would be quick
as heartbreak;
each nerve pulsating under
the ripping of each severed
heartstring,

each pain stands electrified,
intensified,
still, death would be quick.

The shapeless form Death
forms itself into,
cloud-clad upon the sea,
the red one the moon does oft
but softly trickle through,

the moon that moves its footsteps
across the ocean’s blue,
because it, too, would grieve…

But death is quick.

So often quick
to trick, to cheat into;
Death has but eyes
that see life’s thread
be vainly cut through

by severed hands that work
the devil’s knot, too loose,
but Death would intercept,
its spying eyes and grin,
unsparingly unseen,
for Death is quick.

And none would live to tell,
rise up from graven hell,
dig up the roots to find earth’s
warmth above the grave,
for Death would intercept,
because it, too, can only come
but once.