With a blade, a shovel and a pickaxe
It must have seemed to you,
When you tried to invite me to the
State of grace that opened up to you
I know now that I must’ve seemed
Out of an earshot to you
We the living, mired in it, are that way,
Until a blade, a shovel and a pickaxe comes for us.
My friend, D.
Featured image: Misty morning by Ivan Aivazovsky, via Wikiart.org.