Grave

My Knight has a gouged mark

On the left side of his breastplate

I polish his armor every night

But the scar still stays;

I had a dream where I

Was being buried alive

My Knight was shoveling soil

Onto my mortal body

On the right side of me

My comrades lay in a line

And on the left under fresher dirt

Lay my Brother in eternal sleep

And someone had placed

My favorite fresh flowers

Onto his fresh grave

They smelled so light and sweet

I would turn my Head to look

But the soil was piling onto my

Neck and I could no longer

But surely they were beautiful

I wondered if someone would also

Leave a few scattered petals for me

Yet my Knight is not one for flowers

And all my other Comrades lay dead

Our graves arranged in a neat row

Through the layers of soil I hear

The retreating footsteps of my Knight

After that it was very quiet

And very peaceful;

My fingers always ached

In the wake of a battle

They are sore from pulling strings

But I keep pulling anyway.