Children Don’t Belong in Graveyards

I’m clutching childhood in my
Hands, wrinkled and damp
From a flood of tears, all these
Years wrapped in silk and buried
four feet under the ground, a burial
mound and I hear pounding of compact
soil as the littler me pleads for air, its
not fair, she screams, my ears bleed,
I can’t see her anymore, she is dead.

Frenzied motion, flying earth, fingernails
Full of regret and dirt, I hold childhood in
my arms, She is pale faced and unaged
no lungs, no heart and I am to blame,
come back, I whisper, come back and play
but graveyards don’t allow children’s toys,
choirboys sing in the chapel nearby, I shouldn’t
be here, but no, no goodbyes, wake up, I plead,
wake up for me, claws like a vice. Suffocatingly.

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