In Fact

I dig grave after grave
to put you into piece by piece,
the advantage of time
when it serves the guilty
is time, like Satan
forever waiting for the inevitable
to come, bartering and stipulating
as he does.  Put each one to rest
says the self accusing soul,
resurrect them again says the devil.
Try to pull the scatter
into a single location
as angels stand guard
and take their notes.
I, the forever grave digger,
shovel in hand, half asleep,
stand in the stillness.  The glade
of anger a few yards away,
that wholesome place
where the wicked meet death.
In the chorus one hears
the cracked voice of reason
who screamed late into the night,
death opera, she sings lullabies
to the frozen and ashamed.
If only all the others understood
the list of sins, the stinging ablation
of forgiveness, the Z track
of the maze where the surgeon
cauters and amends.