She was a gravedigger who did her work
Only by night.
She starts with just one shovelful of
Moist, crimson dirt.
It doesn't seem like a lot,
And it isn't.
'Tis but a scratch on the surface.
But everyday, the shovel brings
It brings more moist, crimson dirt
To the top of the hole,
And her closer to her desired depth and destination.
She chooses a plot where no one ever goes
To just start digging.
She has her reasons which no one understands
(Or even tries to) at first;
Complex justification for it all.
But suddenly she needs none,
And she digs just to dig.
Since the groundskeepers
Don't notice or care to
Actually keep the grounds,
She knows it wouldn't truly make a difference
Anyways, but she thinks
'It's the principle of the thing.'
Their failure to do their duties
Makes it all the easier to dig that extra grave
Without them noticing.
She locks up her shovels when she's done,
Careful to keep the best ones nice, sharp,
And clean so as to not mess up
The shed in which they're stored.
She knows how the groundskeepers
Until she drags herself into the grave she has been
Only by night
And never climbs back out.
YOU ARE READING
Plot Hole (Poetry)Poetry
*trigger warning* This is a short, dark poem I wrote because I'm going through some stuff. It's not the best, but I hope you'll still take a peek. Feel free to leave comments and feedback, but please don't be harsh, rude, and/or judgmental. Thank yo...