Shovels Holding Chainmail

A poem for the mortal self.

Whilst these shovels suit my grave in a dirt’s armor

A coffin stares listless at the stars in their charters

Forever more to abandon this view

Once armored in full, of the earth, a truce

A high priced truce that comes

With a war waged to cease hostilities with all un-calm

How the spirits rejoice when their dead are embalmed!

And then soar! Smiling all the higher

These weird shells we shed

Meant merely to make a meal of ashes for dry thirsting pyres

How have those years added up on calculators and fingers?

Have they been for nothing?

Barely seeming to linger

 

Shovels full of chainmail, the earth, our raiment

Clad in armor against the elements

And we decompose beneath

An ode to Poe

Those tales of death and woe

Seek for me respite from fearful foes

 

Long hours of restless yearning

For things that will never come or be

Let the winds carry

Ours to a smiling sleep.

 

 

 

Author's Note

I hope it is an enjoyable read for anyone who might waste their time on it =D. And if you do then thank you for reading.