The mound

The tall trees sit brooding over

the mound of dirt,

 

as witnesses,

 

silent,

waiting,

evergreen,

ever present,

knowing the bones

that lie in rows,

 

neat rows

beneath

the dirt,

 

under the mound

where they fell,

blood covered splattered

and hidden well

for only the roots to find,

 

for only the trees

to know

 

the ripping sound,

 

and the wet ground,

 

and the treasures

buried deep

and hidden there.

 

2/12/2016

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