The dead are not alone.
The shovel also services that
which cannot be allowed to live,
but doggedly refuses to die.
Those fixed flames that will not be
doused flicker on and suppression
brings but a smoky revelation
that demands a digging of the
most excruciating kind.
Gouging the ground, we kick our
searing cinders into the chasm
we have created, leaving no
marker save the scald on our soul
and the palpable absence of
what we can suffer to bury,
but not kill. It will continue to
burn, unseen by those who it can
consume and felt only by we who
can hardly bear its howling heat.
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