A Wistful Death

On a cold night like this,
I use your memory like a blazing torch.

And the three of me jostling,
Huddle around you.

One digging my grave,
The second keeping the flame.
And the third,

There, put into the pit only a minute ago,
Smiled a little, tickled by the falling
embers of the glowing torch.

Featured image: Scene on a Grave, by Vasily Perov (1859) via WikiArt.org.

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