The dirt crumbles beneath my fingers,
as I scrape away the solid ground,
burying itself beneath my nails,
to which every cuticle is crowned,
I scrape away this wrongful act,
hiding the sinking feeling in my chest,
I try not to think about the sinful crime,
as I wipe my fingers across my vest,
I am alone in my reasoning,
alone in all my feelings my own,
I uncover the crimes and past together,
from the Earth to which they were sewn,
I dig through layers of the crust,
unraveling my history,
till the throb resounds painfully through my fingers,
all scathed and blistery,
I will soon come to the tomb,
in which they are laid,
my victims a many,
in hopes their souls could be saved,
I find my family lying all in a line,
unable to breathe,
even though my hair is rippling,
under the sweet soft breeze,
alone I know why I go every moon to visit those I have slain,
alone I know this pain,
alone I know,
not even to tell my brain...
