Shovel

 

Shovel

 

His beard glistened

He was drenched in sweaty, silver, drips of tinsel.

His dry lips were pinched together.

Not even father of death could pry his emotions.  

The wrangler of a man sang satire, in the melody of a whistle.

He grasped his shovel with a wrath.

Splinters feed his skin.

The reminder was vicious!

Like a disease that is vindictive.

He pulled from his plad shirt pocket, a pack of rusty red Winston's.

Hollow and out of spirit.

He tossed an empty bottle of Jack Daniels.

His body began to slump in his sons plot, resting against the soft wet soil.

His heart began to give out.

Praying to god let this be the last time.

A rest, with his son. 

Silence cured his misery.

 

By Patrick Paul Shawver

Reviews

[Emily]

That is quite hauntingly realistic. It's hard to tap into and capture such raw, dark emotions. You did it admirably. Well done.