My own Grave

The dirt upon my face is not nearly as bad as once imagined it would be. Beneath the grass and sand, it is cold, dark, and lonely. My hands and feet fastened by the hold of un-forgiveness. I yet feel the urge to move, to fight, but nothing will give. For what have I given that I should deserve such grace? I feel as though the light is slowly fading with each passing day. I am beginning to loose all sight of what is truly right; things I did not see before, nevertheless revealed through pain. Death is easy, life is hard, and for once in my life I have no fear of death. Not because heaven waits, nor the relatives that have gone on before. Nor that the almighty God sits upon his throne and stretches his welcoming hands unto his children. There really is little to fear when you’ve lost so much? I have destroyed the heaven that was here on earth. I have killed myself and hurt another. It was my own hands that held the shovel, my own misery and selfishness that put forth the effort to remove the precious green grass that was my life. It was my own pride that etched my name across the grey stone. Who ever thought it would be so easy for one to dig his own grave. And it is there where I lay waiting, hoping, crying, wishing, longing, wanting, dreaming, desiring, yearning, striving and praying that this is not where I stay.

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