Edgar Allan poet Journal #2

AT THE EDGE sky sits low wraps herself white thick around black clad beings souls that walk the earth haunted by memories of themselves before they stood six feet above and tossed with a thud a handful of dirt onto a pine box i have stood graveside drained of joy tossed dirt extended hollow hugs i mirrored lips that pressed past sorrow’s kiss i listened to voices float towards me mumbled echoes I’m Sorry i watched the words lift into hollow winds drift away i am ghost and in silent hours when sleep and sky sit low hugging the ground grief slices through into morning i wait for breath to fill my lungs it is in the still times when I remember i stand at earth’s edge and plunge head first, arms splayed back arched, into grief’s deep well and swim 38