Relentlessly my steel toe boots tap
on the cracked concrete,
to the music of a sermon replaying my head.
“Ashes to Ashes”
I wonder why I’m walking on this same path that led to you so long ago,
this same path that you throw me on, and walked over me.

What misguidance has been handed to my
dried, quivering hands.
I open the feeble note once more,
reading its scribbled message of love, and unsure actions,
it is that which opens my mind as that first flower,
I gave you on the day you wrote this note to me,
bloomed.

You said never would that flower cry,
but as those petals fell I wept.
You said never would it come to this,
as many times I swore these cracks in the sidewalk grow bigger,
longer,
you swore those cuts haven’t grown deeper,
longer.

How many times have told you I loved you,
which you only responded to with accusations,
as the blood puddle at your feet growing wider,
spawning out filling those cracks.

My boots pushing down blades of grass pushed up from
undead gardeners set six feet beneath each step.

Marble and stone built up in elaborate death reminders,
as I approach you.

People might have thought,
that from those hatch marks you bear,
you knew how to weave a basket.
But a basket isn’t what you weaved,
it was what you became.
Setting all the worlds problems,
all my problems,
worries on your shoulders,
Holding them all on the thin
piece of fabric.

“Dust to dust.”

I set that note in your basket and watch,
watch as you now are lowered,
deeper,
to push up your own share of grass.